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^i/H/ff^' 
 
 Lions 
 
 imffsiMi 
 
 OR 
 
 PERSONAL RECOLLE f TIOX.^ 
 
 v9 
 9 
 
 BY THE AUTKOR OF 
 
 'pen ^ INK SKETCHES OF AUTHORS 3l AUTHORESSES'.' 
 
 ^PEN PICTURES 0? POPULAR ENGLISH PREACHERS. 
 
 "LIFE OP CHATTERTON" <5.c <Scc 
 
 :^:^ ^r-^i^^i^^^imt 
 
 OJF.: L 
 LONDON: 
 
 W. TWEEDIE, 337, STRAND, 
 
 Xs0f^ 
 
LIONS: 
 
 LINING AND DEAD; 
 
 OR, 
 
 PERSONAL RECOLLECTIONS 
 
 OT 
 
 THE "GREAT AND GIFTED/ 
 
 BY THE AUTHOR OF 
 'pen and ink sketches op authors and authoresses,' 
 
 "pen pictures of POPDLA.R ENGLISH PREACHERS," 
 
 "life of chattbrton," etc. 
 
 SECOND EDITION. 
 
 LONDON: 
 PUBLISHED BY AV. TWEEDIE, 
 
 337, STRAND. 
 MDCCCLIV. 
 

 TO 
 MRS. ELIZABETH G. CHOULES, 
 
 AND 
 
 MISS MARTHA G. CHOULES, 
 
 OP 
 NEWPORT, RHODE ISLAND, UNITED STATES, 
 
 8 A SLIGHT MEMORIAL OP THEIR GENERAL 
 
 NKW ENGLAND HOSPITALITY, IS CHEERFULLY INSCR[BED 
 
 BY 
 
 ITS AUTHOR. 
 
TO THE READER. 
 
 Very little need be said by way of a Preface to this 
 little Volume, which cousista siuaply of Sketchy Recol- 
 lections of some distinguished people and may be con- 
 sidered as a second series of "Pen and Ink Sketches," 
 by the same hand, which appeared a few years since. 
 
 Several of the Chapters have appeared in American 
 Periodicals, and two have been re-written altogether. 
 Should these Sketches, now submitted to the public, 
 become as popular as those which have already appeared, 
 the author will have abundant reason to be satisfied 
 with their reception. 
 
 London, July, 1852. 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 CHA.PTER I. PAOK. 
 
 necollectious of Wordsworth, Coleridge, and Charles 
 
 Lamb - - -IS 
 
 II. 
 Reminiscences of Shelley and Hazlitt - ' 30 
 
 III. 
 
 A Sketch from an " Old Ann Chair," Eliza Cook 
 
 with a peep at two Popular Actresses - - 42 
 
 IV. 
 
 A "Literary Tavern" Visit with a Peep at some 
 
 ' Punch People" - - - - 56 
 
 V. 
 
 The Apostle of Temperance in America Mr. John 
 
 B. Gough - - - - - - 65 
 
 VI. 
 
 The " Gipsies of Science" Sketches of Sir. I. Brunei 
 Dr. Dyonysius Lardner ^Dr. Faraday William 
 Jerdan Thomas Moore - - - -82 
 
 VII. 
 
 A Pair of Parliamentary Portraits D'Israeli and Bul- 
 wer " Chancellor of the Exchequer Benjamin 
 D'lsraeU, Esq." - - - . - 100 
 
 vin. 
 
 A Sketch of a Great Metropolitan Sketcher - 114 
 
Xll CONTENTS. 
 
 IX. PAGE. 
 
 Memoirs of Letitia Elizabeth Landon, (L.E.L.) - 125 
 
 X. 
 The Weaver Poet of Inverury Recollections of Wil- 
 liam Thorn - - - . - 146 
 
 XI. 
 
 J. S. Buckingham Thomas Carlyle Literary Lec- 
 turers William Makepeace Thackeray Albert 
 Smith and Samuel Lover, with a glance at 
 American Lecturers P. Whipple and Oliver 
 Wendell Holmes 17^ 
 
 XII. 
 
 Literary Lecturers continued - - - - 198 
 
 XIII. 
 William and Mary Howitt Freihgrath and Miss 
 
 Bremer - - - - - - 220 
 
 XIV. 
 Musical Reminiscences Ole Bull and Paganiui - 246 
 
 XV. 
 The last Song of the Nightingale A " Jenny Lind" 
 
 Sketch in New York - - - - 264 
 
 XVL 
 ''Mysteries" of the London Press Authors and Ar- 
 tists ; or " Sketches behind the Scenes" Reynolds 
 Pierce Egan Nicholson, &c. - - - 277 
 
 XVII. 
 A Literary Breakfast ----- 295 
 
 XVIIL 
 A Literary Soiree The Bartholemews &c., &c. ' 324 
 
 XIX. 
 
 Recollections of Joanna Baillie and John Gait with 
 
 a notice of the original ''Laurie Todd. * - 345 
 
LIONS; LIVING AND DEAD- 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 PERSONAL RECOLLECTIONS OF WORDSWORTH, 
 COLERIDGE, AND CHARLES LAMB. 
 
 It was on the occasion of my returning from 
 the North to my home, some years ago, that I 
 first met the late Poet-Laureate, William 
 Wordsworth. Coming to his little paradise 
 of a mountain domicile, and its amiable in- 
 mates, including Miss Wordsworth, a sister 
 of the poet, from the Northern Athens, the 
 literary atmosphere of which is, or was then, 
 much above blood-heat, it seemed quite delight- 
 ful by its serene contrast. The ** moderate 
 mansion"" stands, quite embosomed in trees, on 
 the road to Keswick, near Ambleside, a village 
 at the head of Windermere, surrounded with 
 green and romantic mountains. It was pleasing 
 
r4 LIONS ; LIVING AND DEAD. 
 
 to observe the fond veneration for her brother of 
 the affable and unaffected sister an ornament 
 of old-maiden life. 
 
 Yet, as care is an " universal apparition," so 
 Wordsworth started up at the delightful tea- 
 table, round which we were seated shortly 
 after my introduction to the family circle, con- 
 jured up by my rash mention, in the course of 
 conversation, of the late Lord Jeffrey (not a 
 lord then, of course, except as lord of the ascen- 
 dant in criticism, and a lord ch\ef justice, as I 
 presume to think.) I must premise here, that, 
 at that time, there was much jealousy existing 
 between cliques in Edinburgh society, so that 
 none, except insignificant lookers-on, engaged 
 in no literary enterprise, could well be neutral 
 or friendly to all. Belonging to this idle class 
 myself, I enjoyed this privilege, and had just 
 left Edinburgh to enjoy an autumn at the 
 Lakes; having been delighted with the frank 
 heartiness, and entire unbending of himself in 
 " Prince of Editors." 
 
 We were already deep in the topic of the 
 "Old Thorn," of the ''Lyrical Ballads," 
 Mr. Wordsworth favouring me by relating the 
 precise occasion of its composition ; his being 
 in reality caught in a storm on a Somersetshire 
 hill ; there being an actual likened storm, and 
 also some likeness of a child's grave Mrs. 
 
WORDSWOUTH. 1 'i 
 
 Wordsworth patiently waiting, with hand ex- 
 tended, for the poet's tea-cup, which in the 
 ardour of the ** pleasure of memory" he also 
 held, but still retained empty, when, at my 
 mention of that luckless name, suggested by 
 some remark of his own on the unfairness of 
 the laughers at his theory, up started the tall 
 figure of the lyrist, his hitherto complacent 
 countenance, which is very expressive, in spite 
 of dim eyes and a hird outline, ruffled like his 
 own little pmd, that he had " measured from 
 side to side," by the sudden storm, and with one 
 hand thrust into his breast, and the other 
 clenched, began a rapid walk about the room, 
 all in good set terms, not rapid like his mo- 
 tions, talking a review of the " Review," some- 
 times of the work in toto ; sometimes of his 
 single onslaught ou himself, and of its * Ex- 
 cursion C then of Mr. Jeffrey, who " might 
 think it like a great man, and worthy of his 
 public character, to publicly insult another ; 
 but he also must abide the judgment of the 
 public, sloit, indeed, occasionally, todojustice^ 
 slow" and he repeated the words as if pon- 
 dering, and calmed himself with some inward 
 reflection, and then obeyed Mrs. Wordsworth's 
 anxious invitation to take his tea before it was 
 quite cold. 
 
 " We shall all be judged^' he again said ener- 
 
16 lions; living and dead. 
 
 getically, with such solemnity, too, that it 
 might be thought to allude to Doomsday, by 
 any one just entering. To scatter the storm, I 
 told him how I first, oddly enough, met with 
 the " Lyrical Ballads" in a book without a 
 title-page, which had been picked up in the 
 road near Epping Forest, and had been dropped 
 probably from some vehicle ; that although at 
 first supposing it to have been a book for chil- 
 dren, I could not help being impressed by parts 
 of it, though then grown out of childhood. 
 
 ** When the blue daylight's in the skies, 
 And frosty air is keen and still ; 
 And to herself she cries, 
 Oh ! misery ! oh ! misery ! 
 Oh ! woe is me oh ! misery !" 
 
 This, which is part of the child-murder, or 
 Thorn ballad, struck me, I told him so, at 
 which he was much pleased, and directly 
 showed the ladies how my not knowing what 
 to make of this mutilated book, which just 
 presented the poems without even a title-page, 
 afforded strong evidence in support of his theory 
 or the latent elements of poetic pleasure, even 
 in the lowest walks of life. I did not quite 
 clearly see how it bore on the point, but he did; 
 and they, almost before he could end the sen- 
 tence, were convinced; and I, too, was wel 
 
VORDSWORTH. 17 
 
 pleased to please a whole family, so all was 
 well. 
 
 Cordial affviotion seemed to unite the poet 
 and his admirini^ listeners, for not mnch other 
 duty was imposed but to listen ; indeed, when 
 he got warmed about poetry, especially Mil- 
 tonic harmony^ rather than thought^ it was a 
 positive luxury to listen to him. 
 
 My greatest luxury of this kind was one 
 dazzlino; moonlight walk, which Mr. Words- 
 worth did me the real fiivour to take with me 
 on my way home to Esthwaite Water, near the 
 town of Hackshead, the scene of his school- 
 days. I think it was eleven o^clock when he 
 stepped back for his hat and umbrella ; to my 
 surprise he bade his family not sit up, and qui- 
 etly began an eloquent discourse on Milton 
 Dante himself his habits (his literary 
 wrongs, too, again) his frequent suspensions 
 of the very pleasure, too, in composition, as if 
 he should never write again, &c. On another 
 occasion, too, I was struck with the sensitive- 
 ness to praise, which is, says the elder D'Israeli, 
 indigenous to the minds of poets. Professor 
 Wilson resided, until 1820, at Grasmere, near 
 Mr. Wordsworth's residence, where he wrote, 
 among other things, his " Isle of Palms,"*' and 
 " The City of the Plague," and was his bosom 
 friend. When in that year, Wilson obtained 
 
18 lions; living and dead. 
 
 the chair of Moral Philosopliy in the University 
 of Edinburgh, whither he went to reside, he 
 never forgot the kindly family with which he 
 had enjoyed so much happiness ; and rarely, 
 perhaps never, was published a number of 
 " Blackwood's Mai^azine," without Words- 
 worth's name absolutely embossing its double 
 columns in some eulogistic shape or other, as 
 every reader of Maga must remember. I have 
 no doubt that the late Laureate owes his place 
 among the poets of Great Britain entirely to 
 his grateful friend, John Wilson, of EUeray 
 House, notwithstanding that he was the " Great 
 Captain of the Lake poets," as Jeffrey used to 
 designate him, and Wilson, then, but his 
 admiring poetical adopted son. 
 
 The reading public did read Wilson charm- 
 ing, gouty old Christopher though they did 
 not ponder Wordsworth's pages ; but when it 
 was told some hundred and twenty times in a 
 year, there being about ten indirect mentions 
 in each number, that the greatest poet that 
 ever lived was then living, the ceaseless appeal 
 had at last its effect on its prepossessed imagi- 
 nation, Byron-ridden, Scott-ridden, Waverley 
 ridden, as it had been ; and a murmur began to 
 creep curiosity became excited ; even idiot 
 boys and Peter Bells no longer scared away 
 popular attention. But I was going to observe 
 
WORDSWOUTH. ID 
 
 on Mr. Wordswortirs sensitiveness to the 
 praises in JJlackwood. With a smile of playful 
 ridicule of its ultra-laudation, he asked had I 
 seen the last month's, then just out ? " I am 
 told," he added, indifFc*rently, *' for I have not 
 seen it, that my last puhlication is reviewed or 
 alluded to ; and the extrava;^ant critic goes ou 
 to say, that the extracts they give, are worth, 
 of themselves, the price of the magazine." 
 This was -spoken in a joke, of course, but it 
 seemed that it was not so taken, for on Mrs. 
 Wordsworth''s laughing, the first cloud I had 
 ever seen overcast the visage of the Mountain 
 Patriarch, at least which I had seen lowering 
 on any one present (at absent Jeffrey, the cloud 
 was pretty terrible), then swept aci?bRs it, and 
 his own smile flying before it, he said, rather 
 sternly, and looking so, too, " That was a 
 serious revrew, Mrs. Wordsworth.'' 
 
 The follies of the wise afford a fair moral 
 topic. Let me not be supposed wishful to ex- 
 cite one contemptuous smile at a good man, 
 and a icise one a true poet, though not an in- 
 spired genius of tlie highest order, an exem- 
 plary parent, husband, and brother. I only 
 aim at presenting such little traits as may de- 
 pict the worthy Laureate to strangers more 
 truly, trifling as they are, than public laudatory 
 generalities. 
 
20 LIONS ; LIVING AND DEAD. 
 
 ***** 
 
 To avoid the tedium of following one literary 
 character through my whole period of inter- 
 course with him, I propose to bear the reader 
 company in my successive introductions to a 
 few others, and recur to each in the manner 
 that chance afterwards conducted myself. 
 
 I had just returned from my Lake visit, and 
 was strolling in a beautiful meadow of romantic 
 site, five miles from the metropolis, and outside 
 of the village of Highgate, when I passed a 
 corpulent, clerkly-looking man, of the middle 
 size, sauntering along, (the autumn evening 
 being a glorious one,) when a courteous kind of 
 voice said, " Look to your pocket-handkerchief, 
 sir !" whicli was indeed nearly trailing on the 
 ground behind. Turning to thank him, I saw 
 a pale, rather heavy, phlegmatic-looking face, of 
 apparently from fifty to sixty years standing ; 
 with grey hair, grey eyes of a benign expression, 
 yet somewhat inexpressive as a whole, marked 
 with peculiar langour, that might be a calm 
 interval of pain, or profound pensiveness, or an 
 absence of mind that often mimics deep thought, 
 when, perhaps, the mind rests from thinking. 
 His twinkling eyes seemed to enjoy the land- 
 scape. A rich sweep of meadows far below 
 our feet, closed by the renowned metropolis, its 
 vast overhanging cloudy now actually adorning 
 
COLERIDGE. 21 
 
 the landscape, being umbered by tbe level sun, 
 a dusky red aerial roof of majestic, circular 
 extant in the boundless fading blue, dim spires 
 and cupolas innumerable, glittering or darken- 
 ing beneath it ; in the midst, one, in form and 
 structure, proudly eminent, rising dark as a 
 rock of black marble, and as stupendous St. 
 Paul's Cathedral. 
 
 "The clergyman of Highgate, possibly!" I 
 said to myself. Yet there was something of 
 the remains of troublous thinking, a look of 
 worn and wearied sensibility, that hardly suited 
 the idea of fat contented Piety looking down- 
 ward on the Earth, which is yielding an 
 English clergyman a tenth of the treasures of 
 her ample lap, may very reasonably attract 
 down to her even the eye of an enlightened 
 son of Mother Church. He looked very like a 
 comfortable priest at least, and only that cast 
 of thought redeemed the whole outer man from 
 fulfilling the idea of Thomson's " round, fat, 
 oily man of God," I meditated again, and re- 
 connoitered my gentleman from a distance, 
 whose only business seemed the same as mine, 
 to catch the last of a glorious day unbroken. 
 
 " After all, perhaps, he is one of the happy 
 sleek cits located in romantic Highgate, just 
 waiting ' dinner going up ;* " and now he 
 seemed fixed in reverie, gazing at mighty Lon- 
 
22 LIONS ; LIVING AND DEAD. 
 
 don, (from this point of view truly picturesque). 
 " He's trying now to guess exactly the where- 
 about of his little dusky room behind a huge 
 warehouse in the city. Ah ! he smells now, 
 in the fine frenzy of gastric imagination, the 
 soup ! Unworthy conjecture ! No his was 
 the poet's eye he was admiring Nature. It 
 was Samuel -Taylor Coleridge, the metaphy- 
 sician and Poet both, or must not truth almost 
 say either^ or not the perfection of either 
 through the collision of the two characters ? I 
 had in my pocket letters from the North, partly 
 introductory ; and next day recognised in the 
 saviour of my bit of silk, the celebrated inmate 
 of Mr. Oilman's house at Highgate. 
 
 Alas ! it is too probable that part of that trou- 
 blous expression was as much matter of the 
 vile L. S. D. musing, as if he had indeed been 
 the cit of my last conceit ! The philosopher's 
 mind for years suffered martyrdom from the 
 conflict of generous impatience of obligation 
 and dire necessity of receiving it. The noble 
 disinterestedness of Mr. and Mrs. Gilman ren- 
 dered their favours, perhaps, still more painful 
 to receive. In all his embryo schemes of lite- 
 rary ambition, the prospect of emancipation 
 from fruitless wishes to prove his gratitude cer- 
 tainly formed one chief charm. 
 
 Hurrying on to another part of my brief in- 
 
COLERIDGE. 23 
 
 tcrcourse, I shall throw together what I re- 
 memher of the effect of his general deportment 
 upon my mind. Of course I was more anxious 
 to hear than be heard. Yet I confess, I did 
 fancy that the consciousness of what his friends 
 told the public, and the public expected of his 
 wondrous eloquence, was too visible, imparting 
 a very little of what we dislike, in a be-praised 
 beauty's perpetual simpor an itch for admira- 
 tion prompting self- recollection. He seemed 
 aware that strangers expected a treat from that 
 eloquent speech. The bees that clustered around 
 his lips (no doubt) in infancy, could not, how- 
 ever, have deposited sweets inexhaustible ; and 
 the vast flow of his eloquence hence sometimes 
 brawled away roughly among metaphysical 
 rock of the strangest form, or wandered away 
 fairly out of sight of the vulgar mortal intellec- 
 tual eyes. As to any intellectual obstacle that 
 his hearer might venture to edge in a suggested 
 flaw in his argument, or doubt to be resolved 
 it caused not a ripple. He smiled gesticu- 
 lated seeming assent (with too much an air of 
 adult indulgence to innocent child's prattle) 
 and pursumg his high " argument," just the 
 same, never recurring to yours. Talfourd has 
 said, that he thus pleased everybody, by con- 
 ceding the point without dispute. (Query ?) I 
 knew several whom this lofty sort of patience 
 
24 LIONS ; LIVING AND DEAD. 
 
 did not please or content. Moreover, his love 
 of the mystic his strange admiration of that 
 dashing theorist Kant, who has a sword ready 
 for every Gordian knot in metaphysics, under 
 the name of practical reason, could find little 
 sympathy in others. He has shipped an im- 
 mense cargo of this lore in his " Biographia 
 Literaria." He was in full employ upon this 
 work, as I afterwards learned, at the period I 
 allude to ; and this might have caused his con- 
 versation to be more than usually abstruse. I 
 was charmed with the vague splendours of his 
 thoughts, coruscating like a boreal Aurora, but 
 I confess the matter of fact, that gave rise to 
 them, seemed indeed veiled by them veiled 
 by " excess of light ;" and when he had at last 
 done, the matter which this glory or halo of 
 language w^as to impress upon the mind, re- 
 mained somewhat in the state of the earthly 
 movements wars, battles, sieges prefigured by 
 that heavenly northern illumination. The ac- 
 tual required a seer as profound, and vision as 
 strong as in second sight, as in that prophetical 
 future. It was too like that state produced, 
 according to Dr. Johnson, by the gorgeous 
 poetry of Akenside "sometimes amazed, 
 always delighted, it recollects httle, and carries 
 away nothing." 
 
 He told me that he owed all his inspiration 
 
COLERIDGE. 'ZO 
 
 to Bowles's Sonnets. He has said, I believe, 
 the same in his Life; and not only his 
 love for poetry, but his fortunate reclamation 
 from a rago for metaphysical disputation that 
 threatened at one time to engross his entire 
 mind. Probably many will think that he never 
 was cured that his dreaminess still runs into 
 his poetry, and the fantastic creations of his 
 imagination turn all his philosophy into dreams. 
 His metaphysics sorely clog the wings of his 
 fancy : Pegasus falls into a heavy trot over 
 tliorny ground, full of old roots ; and his fancy 
 flies away with him while theorizing up to the 
 " highest heaven of invention,'' leaving common 
 sense to wonder at his vast flight to the clouds, 
 and how far within, none know, until he comes 
 down again with a demonstration from Latmos, 
 or some such grand mount, blessed with lunar 
 favour and influence. 
 
 Of the daily, almost hourly arrivals of 
 packets, letters with new works, imploring 
 his obstetric aid in their struggles to avoid 
 the fate of the still-born children of the 
 pres', of religious disputants on a sacred 
 stage, all crowding under the wing of a public 
 character, he complains almost with groan- 
 ing; yet I did somehow detect a not roguish, 
 yet self-complacent " twinkle in his eye," that 
 hinted some spice of comfort under the moun- 
 
26 LIONS ; LIVING AND DEAD. 
 
 tain of supplications, the penalty of " finding 
 oneself famous." Indeed I had proof of the 
 fact even on the former occasion of my seeing 
 him at home. 
 
 He inquired about Edinburgh chit-chat with 
 ostensible indifference, but ill-concealed eager- 
 ness, especially of the doings and sayings of the 
 great little polar star of the literary world 
 Jeffrey, whose battery of long range against 
 him, as one of the " knot of hypochondrical 
 and whining poets that haunt the Lakes," 
 as he wickedly described them, evidently broke 
 through his habitual lofty elevation of thought, 
 which kept or seemed to keep a calm for ever 
 around him. He even anxiously hinted, re- 
 p3atedly, his non-relationship to that family, 
 in a manner which he thought his friend 
 AVordsworth would have deemed an " unkind 
 cut" at least, and Southey not less so. Of his 
 friend Wordsworth, however, he spoke with 
 admiration, though disclaiming for myself as 
 well as him all pretensions to being considered 
 of any school, much less founders of one. 
 
 At a subsequent interview, Mr. Coleridge 
 favoured me with some hints of an attempt on 
 his own life, which I found afterwards was then 
 almost completed, being published either that 
 year or the next, i allude to the Biographic 
 literature. I fancied then that it was one of 
 
(HAIU.KS LAMB. 27 
 
 the shadowy embryos of his fertile mind, never 
 to be embodied ; for he was never without a 
 project, and the last was usually the chosen one, 
 his well-bolov^ed among the rest, on which ho 
 proposed to build his fame. 
 
 Lamb the inimitable Elia has, with his 
 usual novel humour, alluded to these " castles 
 in the air" of his friend, in a letter to Mr. 
 Manning, then in China. The whole letter is 
 as admirable as it is singular. A strange 
 mingled yarn runs through it of mirth and 
 melancholy not alternately, which is common 
 enough, but the identical sentiment, at once 
 solemn and ridiculous, breathing mortality and 
 its terrors, and fantastic fancy with its fires ; the 
 certain deadly futurity being drawn as present, 
 while all is life and gaiety : yet thsLt prospective 
 reality of death and change, and decay, all the 
 while forcing itself on the merry voluptuary, till 
 he sighs while he laughs, and *' breaks the course 
 of laughter with a sigh." 
 
 Apropos of Charles Lamb I think it was 
 one Sunday that, entering Mr. Coleridge's resi- 
 dence, 1 passed in the hall a plain, quizzical, 
 slightly made little gentleman, and a lady, just 
 leaving to catch the departing stage from 
 Ilighgate to London. The lingering of the 
 cheerful couple at the door with their host, 
 seemed to indicate reluctance to close their 
 
28 LIONS ; LIVING AND DEAD, 
 
 pleasant day. I found that this was the face- 
 tious the feelint^ the fancy-wrought Charles 
 Lamb ; the India-House slave the genius 
 martyred on the altar of Plutus not for his 
 own emolument, but for that of a company. 
 
 I could hear a parting hon-mot let off, which 
 hung fire as usual ; Lamb's stutter never being 
 wholly forgotten. It elicited his sister's ready 
 laugh, and the more restrained response, in the 
 fashion of the thoughtful poet. Lamb's dress 
 was black ; he wore small-clothes and high 
 gaiters ; his stature was short, his whole figure 
 so low as to appear more diminutive than it 
 really was. He said he was as tall as Kean ; 
 but of this, as I nc3ver saw Edmund off the 
 stage, I cannot judge. His forehead was 
 ample ; his hair dark, thick and curling, his 
 head, indeed, looking rather too big for its sup- 
 port ; but it was wliat would have been called 
 a very fine one on a '' fine man," according to 
 wjXg'SLV parlance ; his nose was aquiline, and 
 the mouth very expressive. The melancholy 
 and mirth of the inner man seemed pecu- 
 liarly depicted on his pensive yet half-smiling 
 countenance. 
 
 I met Lamb at a party not long afterwards, 
 and remember how he convulsed the company 
 with an anecdote of Coleridge, which, without 
 doubt, he hatched in his hoaxing- loving brain : 
 
CHARLES LAMB. 29 
 
 " I was," ho said, ** going from my house at 
 Enfield to the India-house one niornin;;, and 
 was hurrying, for I was rather late, when I 
 met Coleridge, on his way to pay me a visit ; 
 he was brimful of some new idea, and in spite 
 of my assuring him that time was precious, he 
 drew me within the door of an unoccupied 
 garden by the road-side, and there, sheltered 
 from observation by a hedge of evergreens, he 
 took me by the button of my coat, and closing 
 his eyes commenced an eloquent discourse, 
 waving his right hand gently, as the musical 
 words flowed in an unbroken stream from his 
 lips. I listened entranced ; but the striking of 
 a church-clock recalled me to a sense of duty. 
 I saw it was of no use to attempt to break 
 away, so taking advantage of his absorption in 
 his subject, 1, with my penknife, quietly severed 
 the button from my coat and decamped. Five 
 hours afterwards, in passing the same garden, 
 on my way home, I heard Coleridge's voice, and 
 on looking in there he was, with closed eyes, 
 the button in his fingers, and his right 
 hand gracefully waving, just as when I left 
 him. He had never missed me !'' 
 
30 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 REMINISCENCES OF SHELLEY AND HAZLITT. 
 
 Mr. De Quincey, in his notes on Gilfillan's 
 " Gallery of Literary Portraits," says, of Percy 
 Bysshe Shelley, " every thing was romantic 
 in his short career every thing bore a tragic 
 interest. From his childhood he moved 
 through a series of affliction ; always craving 
 for love loving and seeking to be loved 
 always he was destined to reap hatred from 
 those with whom life had connected him.'* 
 Perhaps the following reminiscence of Shelley 
 may bear out Mr. De Quincey's remarks so far 
 as the term "romantic" is concerned. 
 
 I have on a former page alluded to a Sunday 
 evening's interview with Samuel Taylor Cole- 
 ridge. After quitting his residence, I had 
 crossed the Fivefields, between Highgate and 
 Hampstead, to the latter place, when just on 
 entering the Heath, at rather a late hour, I 
 was startled by a 'sort of disturbance among a 
 few persons at the door of a large house. 
 
SHKLI.KY. 
 
 31 
 
 Drawing near, I perceived what appeared to bo 
 the hteless body of a woman, upheld, in a half- 
 sitting posture with lolling bead, by a tall 
 young man, evidently no vulgar brawler, by 
 his speech, but in an highly excited state, 
 who seemed disposed to force an entrance with 
 his senseless charge, which two or three men 
 servants resisted. There was a voice, or more 
 than one, almost screaming from within, the 
 tall stranger's voice was as high without ; all 
 were too busy to have satisfied any enquiry, 
 and in the midst of uproar, the sound of wheels 
 was heard it was the carriage of the master of 
 the mansion returning home. To him, who 
 seemed astonished at the scene, the friend of 
 the dead or dying woman turned, and detained 
 him on the steps of the carriage, before ho 
 could set foot on the ground, pointing at the 
 same time to the female figure. The servants, 
 however, quickly explained the cause of the 
 turmoil ; angry words passed, and he was no 
 nearer his benevolent object the introducing 
 his burthen (which he had brought on his 
 back from Heaven knows where,) into the 
 house. Some wine, and restoratives, and 
 volatile essences, &c., were sent out from the 
 dwelling, and I was gratified to find the 
 "suspended animation"' of the sufferer itself 
 happily suspended so far as to admit the en- 
 
32 lions; living and dead. 
 
 trance of a whole glass of wine, her deglutition 
 seeming to me better than " could be ex- 
 pected." It was a woman in draggled plight, 
 but her features were hardly visible where I 
 stood. Her humane but unreflectinsf friend 
 had found her in a fit, or fainting from illness, 
 and insisted, on the score of humanity, on the 
 admission /br^^^ ?ii(jfht of this poor woman into 
 the gentleman's house. He forgot that he him- 
 self, being unknown, the inmates might justly 
 fear that it was a ruse to rob the house con- 
 cocted between them some Jack Shephard of 
 the day and his lady; or, even if he could have 
 proved his own respectability, he could not 
 answer for hers. The air was no bad aid to a 
 recovery from syncope, and every relief but a 
 lodging was afforded, as I have shown. This 
 did not content Peircy Bysshe Shelley, for 
 be it was ; but he vociferated a phillippic 
 against the selfishness of the aristocracy ; and 
 almost wept ; he stood prophesying downfall 
 to the unfeeling higher orders ! a servile war ! 
 a second edition in England of the bloody 
 tragedy of the French revolution, and I know 
 not what more. The gentleman at all this 
 being very indignant, and the servants inso- 
 lently bantering him. Indeed one could not 
 well wonder at this, for his gesture and deport- 
 ment were like those of a madman. 
 
SHELLEY. 83 
 
 Curiously enoufh, Mr. Leigh Hunt, in liis 
 recently published autobiography, also refers to 
 this affair. He too, like niyseU', was a spectator 
 of it; wo did not know each other then, but 
 years afterwards I learnt to love the genial 
 society of the author of *' Rimini." Mr. 
 Hunt's account of the matter very nearly 
 resembles mine. The woman after being sent 
 from the gentleman's door was, says Mr. Hunt, 
 " taken to our house, which was at some dis- 
 tance, down a bleak path ; and Shelley and 
 her son (who was present, but this I had not 
 noticed,) were obliged to hold her till the doctor 
 should arrive. It appeared she had been attend- 
 ing this son in London, on a criminal charge 
 made against him, the agitation of which had 
 thrown her into fits on her return. The doctor 
 said that she would have fainted had she lain 
 there a short time longer. The next day, my 
 friend sent mother and son completely home to 
 Hendon, where they were known, and whence 
 they returned him thanks full of gratitude." 
 
 It was not until a week afterwards that I 
 knew this was Shelley. The affair was a 
 strong practical illustration of. his theoretical 
 monomania of philanthropy that fine but pre- 
 posterous excess of humanity that almost drove 
 him melancholy mad over the condition of 
 man. He wished to make a new world, where 
 B 2 
 
34 LIONS ; LIVING AND DEAD. 
 
 men should be angels, and died too soon to learn 
 that he must take the world as he found it, and 
 perhaps to such patient reconciliation to its 
 wretchedness and errors, he would have found 
 it very troublesome at least. 
 
 A sort of melancholy beyond that of the 
 poetic temperament seemed to pursue Shelley 
 all his life His appearance and manners were 
 very eccentric, though polished and subdued, 
 except on excited moments. He went to 
 Charles Richards, the printer in St. Martin's 
 Lane, vvhen quite young, about the printing a 
 little volume of Keat's first poems. The prin- 
 ter told me that he had never had so strange a 
 visitor. He was gaunt, and had peculiar starts 
 and gestures, and a strange way of fixing his 
 eyes. His vvhole attitude resembled the ab- 
 stracted apathy of a musing mad man. 
 
 Let the reader now follow me to the domicile 
 of another literary celebrity a dreamer too, 
 in his own way a political opponent, yet a 
 warm literary friend of that poet and dreamer 
 of dreams whom we left in this lofty village 
 overlooking London and its smoky poll. But 
 I must ask the reader to give one mental glance 
 at the pretty, smooth-faced, beauty-conscious, 
 loquacious-ey'd, neat damsel who admits me 
 into that respectable lodging-house at the West 
 End of London. It is the hour of two in the 
 
HAZI.ITT. 35 
 
 afternoon, yet the object of my visit sits over 
 II breakfast, consistin;; simply of tea and water- 
 cresses and bread and butter. As we passed 
 through the hall, we noticed a boy waiting 
 there for " copy,"' not a juvenile ' devil'"* ex- 
 actly, but one come from some house in Pater- 
 noster-Row, or probably the " Examiner" office. 
 In his parlour, whicli was well furnished (a 
 back room, and very still, the street bein>i; little 
 of a thoroughfare), sat a middle-aged man, slip- 
 pared, and in a dishabille indicating recent up- 
 rising (he had probably not retired until it was 
 daybreak.) He had rather hard but strongly 
 marked features, which only became expressive 
 after much drawing out of his feeling by inter- 
 course. He received me with what appeared 
 shyness, or reluctance to be disturbed, but 
 which I afterwards found to be his habit at first 
 meeting. His tones were quite as low as those 
 of Coleridge ; when not excited, they were 
 almost plaintive or querulous, but his placidity 
 breathed more of unconscious pensiveness than 
 that of his brother thinker, whose complacent 
 meekness always rather savoured of actinf/^ at 
 least of a conscious attention to sage or martyr- 
 like bearing, until his aroused enthusiasm broke 
 through all, elevated his tones, and oven sta- 
 ture, and the man was forgotten in the inspired 
 declaimcr. Both these men were living in 
 
36 LIONS ; LIVING AND DEAD. 
 
 marital celibacy that is, married, but sepa- 
 rated ; the lady of each could say of each, " His 
 soul is a star, and lives apart/' The secrets of 
 married homes, like thoss of the last long home, 
 should be let alone, for clouds of darkness 
 always hancr over them to third parties. I 
 have only to do with the literary " star," not 
 the frail mortal, except so far as the latter may 
 be pleased to reveal himself. 
 
 The soft-looking maiden who announced me 
 having withdrawn, he proffered me a cup of his 
 strong tea, seemingly without lacteal adultera- 
 tion, to employ me while he made up his packet 
 for the boy who was waiting to convey it to 
 the printing office. I had brought him some 
 letters from Edinburgh an object at the time 
 to those who maintained a large correspondence, 
 for there was no penny postage in those days 
 and among them a parcel of missives from Mr. 
 Jeffrey, at my mention of whose name, his fea- 
 tures seemed at once lit up, as a dark lake is 
 irradiated by the flash of a sunbeam. Some 
 thought darted from behind his rather troubled 
 phiz, which I do not agree with some persons 
 in calling handsome, and his languor and con- 
 straint of manner, that had almost damped me 
 into dislike, gradually wore off, and ease, cor- 
 diality, and warmth, and at last, outbreaks of 
 unstudied eloquence, as we conversed, created, 
 
HAZl.ll T. 37 
 
 111 ri niinnor, a new being before my eyes ; and 
 then, and not till then, I conld harmonise the 
 two ideas which before clashed strangely, the 
 vivacious, high-spirited, ramj)ant author, pug- 
 nacious as those who monthly and quarterly 
 baited him, and the low-spirited, low-spoken, 
 almost whining re3Uise, sitting over his solitary 
 tea at mid-day, whom I had half-jiisliked, while 
 I pitied. I could now imagine in the energetic 
 speaker before me the ill-used, insulted, belied, 
 highly gifted, but rather perversely given to 
 startlitig paradox and literary dandyism Wil- 
 liam Hazlitt. 
 
 Hazlitt, in his writings has characterised 
 Jeffrey as the " prince of editors and king of 
 men," and this laudation somewhat exag- 
 gerated, certainly had exposed him to much 
 ridicule from his political opponents. Never- 
 theless, in this instance, genius was true to 
 genius; for what he said, of Jeffrey to me, in 
 the course of our brief conversation, evidently 
 came from the depths of his sensitive heart ; 
 and it must have been without servility, for 
 the praises of the great critic were not at all 
 likely to reach his ears. One complaint he 
 made, but exculpated his patron while making 
 it, of the delay in inserting his contributions 
 in the *' Edinburgh," and this, perhaps, wag 
 not merely a matter of vanity, for Hazlitt, at 
 
88 LIONS ; LIVING AND DEAD. 
 
 that time, depended on his pen for the means 
 of living. 
 
 From talking about Jeffrey and the " Edin- 
 burgh Review." the conversation turned upon 
 the other great critical organ " The Quarterly." 
 Forcing a laugh and very evidently forced too, 
 for his lip quivered, and his fingers clenched 
 involuntarily ;-Hazlitt remarked : 
 
 " My book," (he referred to the " Characters 
 of Shakespere's Plays"), "sold vvell---the first 
 edition had gone off in six weeks till that 
 review came oat. I had just prepared a second 
 edition such was called for but then the 
 ' Quarterly' told the public that I was a fool 
 and a dunce, and said that I was an evil-dis- 
 posed person ; and the public, supposing Gif- 
 ford to know best, confessed it had been a great 
 ass to be pleased where it ought not to be, and 
 the sale completely stopped." The chord had 
 been touched that awakened the wounded spirit 
 of Hazlitt, and he declaimed, with almost fierce 
 eloquence, heartfelt, and even affecting, on the 
 heinousness of this barbaric abuse of the criti- 
 cal chair this personal assassination, under the 
 cloak of the ermine of literary truth on the 
 judgment seat the inhuman libels on Shel- 
 ley, one of which libels was fulminated by 
 Southey, under a review of Leigh Hunt's 
 *' Foliage" the wretched, degrading, wil~ 
 
HAZLITT. of) 
 
 fully false jmlgrnont on poor Keats, all came in 
 for his just and furious denunciation ; and I 
 sympathized, soul and spirit, with him, his 
 troubles, and his wrongs. 
 
 When the storm had blown over, and ho 
 adverted to gentler topics to natural beauty 
 in scenery, I found him full of feeling for the 
 charms of nature, though a '' Cockney," as his 
 enemies delighted to call him. He expressed 
 his pleasant recollections of some travelling ad- 
 ventures he mot with, long before, when exer- 
 cising his original calling of a portrait painter. 
 Painting was then the long chosen field of his 
 ambition. He used to spend weeks in a lone 
 house on Salisbury Plain, and overflowed with 
 re-awakened romantic feeling of his solitary 
 evenings there with a few favourite authors. 
 I can recollect his remarking on the solemn, 
 undefined impression of romantic pleasure he 
 felt in watching here and there, like stars on 
 the earth, a cottage light after nightfall, upon 
 the huge walls of black, formed by the moun- 
 tains in the background, and the sensations oc- 
 casioned by his quitting some village on the 
 borders of the vast plain, as their lights grew 
 few, and the sounds of the rustling autumnal 
 leaf were heard, instead of those arising from 
 the occupations of rural life, whilst he faced 
 the wild country and the boundless gloom to 
 
40 LIOXS; LIVING AND DEAD. 
 
 recall some other " gathering place of man.*'"* 
 I liked him better as the Poet than the Politi- 
 cian, which latter chased away in a few minutes 
 the Poet-painter, better as the literary enthu- 
 siast, the night-wanderer, the musing philoso- 
 pher, and the companion of the immortal dead 
 amid the sterile shepherd -haunts and hewn 
 solitudes of Salisbury Plain, than as the bitter 
 denouncer of parties opposed to him in pohtical 
 opinions. 
 
 On Hazlitt's mantel-piece there happened to 
 be a small figure of Napoleon, and observing 
 me eye it, he commenced a laudation of the 
 original. We had a long combat over the re- 
 mains of his hero the "god of his idolatry," 
 I mean over his fame ; he contending for, 
 and I against, his right to the title of a true 
 hero. It was useless, however, to contend to 
 remind him of his own reverent regard for 
 freedom for the freedom of the Press, as the 
 bulwark of the liberty of man, of Napoleon's 
 not only utterly abolishing that freedom, but 
 enslaving the Press, and enforcing it to do his 
 bidding. It availed nothing to appeal to the 
 philosopher as a " lover of truth," properly 
 speaking against the grand imposture which 
 was practised continually against millions of 
 Frenchmen, by the General, First Consul, and 
 Emperor, throughout his whole career, against 
 
iiA2i-rrT. 11 
 
 his " enormous lyiu'^/'andiiis syster.iatic fraud 
 upon the popular mind, the political bigot 
 would not be "convinced against his will/' 
 No ; spite of all, this Napoleon was glorious to 
 Hazlitt as there he stood, with his folded arms, 
 little hat, and grotesque costume, as wanting 
 in grace or dignity, as would have been, I fear, 
 the little mind of the great hero, the fortunate 
 creature of an era, could it kave been stripped, 
 and its " vera effigies presented in stone." 
 
 It was far into the night when 1 left Hazlitt 
 left him to commence his work, which it 
 was his custom to pursue into the silent hours. 
 After that period I never saw him again, but 
 often when I read some bitter attack on the 
 secluded, suffering man, did my mind wander 
 back to him as he sat over his solitary tea. 
 For a little book which he afterwards wrote, 
 the " Liber Amoris," was far less objection- 
 able than " Don Juan," although the latter 
 was never attacked by a certain set with any- 
 thins like the bitterness shown towards the 
 former. 
 
42 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 A SKETCH FROM AN " OLD ARM-CHAIR ELIZA 
 
 COOK WITH A Pjflfep AT TWO POPULAR ACTRESSES. 
 
 " Bless my heart ! who can that be f said a 
 lady to me, one evening, in the Hanover Square 
 Rooms, whilst we were awaiting the com- 
 mencement of a Concert, by the " Hutchinson 
 Family," a band of American Vocalists who 
 had just arrived in London. 
 
 " Goodness gracious ! is it a man or a wo- 
 man T exclaimed an astonished female in front 
 of me, as she curiously eyed a hybrid-lookmg 
 individual, who had just taken a seat in a con- 
 spicuous part of the room. 
 
 Everybody, in fact, save a few of the initi- 
 ated, appeared to be bursting with anxiety to 
 know who the stranger was ; and curiosity was 
 soon satisfied, for presently a buzz of informa- 
 tion proclaimed the singularly-dressed lady to 
 be Eliza Cook, the poetical lioness of the 
 London Weekhj Dispatch. 
 
 Meanwhile, the object of these inquisitorial 
 
ELIZA tOOK. 43 
 
 examinations sat sturdily, (if I may uso such a 
 term,) on her bench, looked round her with an 
 I-don''t-care-for-you" sort of expression in her 
 large grey eyes, and, in anything but a mincing 
 manner, settled herself in her seat. She looked 
 essentially man-ish, and but for an amplitude 
 of petticoat, I should certainly have taken her 
 for one of the Lords of the Creation. As the 
 mermaid is represented to be half woman and 
 half fish, so Miss Cook seemed to be equally 
 divided by dress into two portions, which gra- 
 dually merged the one into the other, and 
 made up together a rather puzzling sort of 
 whole. 
 
 But let me describe her more particularly, 
 although it is no such easy matter to give a 
 pen and ink description of a lady. It is easy 
 enough to jot down graphic descriptions of 
 broad-clothed and buckramed gentlemen, but 
 when one gets among crape and crinoline, the 
 pen is apt to make sad blunders. Unfortu- 
 nately I have not the happy facility which 
 Jenkins, of the Morning Post possesses, in 
 describing feminine habiliments, in a transcen- 
 dentally tasteful manner, for glace, tulle, and 
 such like tender textiles, are beyond my poor 
 powers of comprehension. However, as luck 
 will have it, I do not stand much in need of 
 such pen-aid at present ; for, queer as Miss 
 
44 lions; living and dead. 
 
 Cook's " outward and visible" attire is, it comes 
 not under the category of the " fashionable," 
 but belongs exclusively to the " odd." 
 
 Here goes, then, for a dash at the lady's 
 face, figure, " fixins," as the Yankees have it. 
 
 And first for the countenance. 
 
 In a former volume of mine, in describing a 
 celebrated Poetess, I said " I cannot well 
 conceive a more exquisitely beautiful creature 
 than Mrs. Hemans none of the portraits or 
 busts I have ever seen of her, do her justice, 
 nor is it possible for words to convey to the 
 reader any idea of the matchless, yet serene 
 beauty of her expression. Her glossy, waving 
 hair was parted on her forehead, and terminated 
 on the sides, in rich and luxuriant auburn curls 
 there was a dove-like look in her eyes, and 
 yet, there was a chastened sadness in their ex- 
 pression. Her complexion was remarkably 
 clear, and her high forehead looked as pure 
 and spotless as Parian marble. A calm repose, 
 not unmingled with melancholy, was the cha- 
 racteristic expression of the face ; but, when she 
 smiled, all traces of sorrow were lost, and she 
 seemed to be but ' a little lower than the 
 angels ;' fitting shrine for so pure a mind I 
 Let me not be deemed a flatterer or an enthu- 
 siast, in thus describing her for I am only 
 one of many, who have been as much capti- 
 
ELIZA COOK. 45 
 
 \ ;\ted by her personal beauty, as charmed by 
 the sweetness and holiness of her productions. 
 It' ever poems were the reflex of the beauties, 
 personal and mental, of their writers, they 
 were indeed so in the case of Mrs. Hemaiis. 
 Now, without the sli^ditest intention what- 
 ever to he rude, or wantin:in courtesy, I must, 
 as a faithful sketcher, declare that all writers of 
 verses do not possess such attractive features ; 
 indeed, Mrs. Ilemans, beautiful as she undoubt- 
 edly was, was in the respect of personal charms, 
 a rather rare plant on the hill side of Parnas- 
 sus. Physical adornments appear seldom to 
 keep company with hitjh poetic excellence, and 
 I might mention many well known lady waiters 
 in proof of this, but I fear to do so, for it would 
 be no joke to have a flight of sharp-pointed 
 pens mercilessly directed against me by chi- 
 valrous defenders of the rhyming daughters of 
 Apollo. 
 
 Miss Cook is by no means sylph-like in 
 either face or figure; her face is large and 
 square, the separate features large. The fore- 
 head is broad, and a little bulging ; over it the 
 dark hair is disposed in a somewhat novel man- 
 ner. It is not parted in the centre, as is usu- 
 ally the case, but parted on the right temple, 
 it sweeps across the brow, and terminates in a 
 jaunty curl on the other side ; from the back 
 
46 LIOXS ; LIVING AND DEAD. 
 
 of the head the hair is combed forward, and 
 terminates in two lono; comb-fixed (not float- 
 ing) ringlets, which occupy those portions of 
 the cheeks where, in the sterner sex, whiskers 
 are cultivated. The eye-brows are large, and 
 surmount a pair of big grey eyes, which seem 
 to have plenty of worldly wisdom in them. 
 You would look in vain in them for what is 
 spoonily termed " spirituality." They are 
 good, serviceable, shrewd, matter-of-fact eyes 
 nothing more. The nose large, of the shape 
 styled Roman, and the mouth large, lip-com- 
 pressed, and decisive. Add to these features a 
 pair of fattish cbeeks, a double chin, and a short 
 neck, and, reader, you have some idea of Eliza 
 Cook. The expression of the combined fea- 
 tures is not characterised by that " shrinking 
 timidity" which some people imagine to be 
 associated with genius it is rather bold and 
 defiant. The lady's figure is plump, and her 
 stature of the medium height. Altogeher she 
 might be taken for a keen, bargain-driving 
 woman of the world (which, indeed, she is 
 said to be,) whose robust youth had been spent 
 in hoydenish scamperings and swingings on 
 five-barred gates. 
 
 Not many days after this, my first glimpse 
 of the much be-praised and be-puffed " Poetess'' 
 of the " Weekly Dispatch,'' my attention was 
 
ELIZA COOK. 47 
 
 drawn, whilst strolling one morninsf tbrough 
 I leet-street, to a portrait, framed and glazed, 
 in the window of that newspaper office. Be- 
 neath it was a notification that on a certain 
 day a copy of that engraved picture would be 
 presented to every subscriber to the paper. I 
 lit once knew of whom this portrait was the 
 true effigy." There was the broad, prominent 
 forehead the great eyes the large nose the 
 capacious mouth the double chin the short 
 neck of the lady of Hanover-square rooms. 
 There, too, was thj same dress a turn-down 
 collar, like a man''s an open fronted dress, as 
 much like a waistcoat as could be a manish 
 position, and a masculine air altogether it 
 only wanted pantaloons outrageous Bloomers 
 to be complete. Beneath the likeness a 
 capital one, though coarse was a bold, black, 
 upright sort of autograph, which anyone with- 
 out '' enclosing five shillings" to either of the 
 ^Professors of Character-describing, might ob- 
 crve to belong to a " strong minded" woman. 
 There was, I am told, a great demand for 
 this portrait. Scarcely a bar-parlour in Lon- 
 don w^as undecorated with a likeness of " Eliza 
 Cook," as the great bulk of her admirers style 
 her ; but I fancy that in the dwellings where 
 Loudon, Baillie, Browning, Hemans, Norton, 
 or Sigournoy are received pictorially with de- 
 
48 LIONS ; LIVING AND DEAD. 
 
 light, the authoress of '' Melaia" is no welcome 
 guest, It is easy enough to gain a certain sort 
 of popularity with the multitudes by jingling 
 rhymers ; it is a very different thing to be re- 
 cognised as possessing the " vision and the 
 faculty divine" within those charmed circles, 
 where their critical justice is dealt out by those 
 who are the acknowledged arbiters of taste and 
 masters of opinion. 
 
 A few weeks after I first saw Eliza Cook at 
 the concert of the Hutchinsons, I received from 
 a London publisher an invitation to one of his 
 literary dinner parties. These are for the most 
 part, dull affairs enough, though sometimes 
 they are racy, from the very spirit of spite, 
 envy, hatred, malice, and all uncharitableness 
 which the guests bring with them. As the 
 host in question was one who delighted to 
 bring oddities together round the table, I sel- 
 dom refused Jiis invitations. Accordingly, at 
 seven o'clock one fine summer evening, after a 
 pleasant saunter across Hyde Park, I found 
 
 myself in Mr. 's dra vising room. A few of 
 
 the invited had already arrived, and were kill- 
 ing the half hour before dinner, by gossiping 
 with the master of the house, or chattering soft 
 nothings to his lady and her sister. There was 
 Marston, the dramatist, tall and stately, look- 
 ing, I thought, a little wild, conversing trau- 
 
ELIZA COOK. 49 
 
 scendentally with littlo John A. Heraud, the 
 most conceited scribbler in all Cockneydoni. 
 He was imitating Coleridge attitude soft 
 voice dreamy look and measured tones. 
 ^V^hat he meant by the cloud of words he ma- 
 naged to envelope his thoughts in, no one could 
 
 tell. There was, besides, Mrs. Bagle 
 
 Bernard, the prolific farce writer of the Hay- 
 market and A del phi, whose "His Last Legs'' 
 afforded poor Power so fine a chance. There 
 was Dr. Beattie, the editor of " Campbell's 
 Letters,'"* silent and thoughtful-looking; and 
 there, too, was Richardson of the " Times," 
 whose reviews are master-pieces in their way. 
 
 Bayle Bernard was telling a Yankee story. 
 He is a native of Boston, though he does not 
 like to own it, why I know not. I say telling, 
 I ought to say reading, for he had brought the 
 manuscript with him in the expectation of 
 being asked " to be funny." I saw him on an 
 after occasion pull forth the same manuscript 
 from his pocket, and read it at a literary soiree. 
 It was something about a Yankee's description 
 of his visit to England to see Queen Victoria 
 married ; how he described St. George's Chan- 
 nel, between England and Ireland, as a consider- 
 able plash of water, but which he guessed was 
 too narrow for one of their big steamers to 
 turn in without being jammed ; and how her 
 
50 LIONS ; LlVINCt AND DEAD. 
 
 Gracious Majesty had, when at the altar, a 
 heap of orange flowers all round her head, to 
 keep it from bustin"*, and such like. Of course 
 there was much applause and laughter unusual 
 before dinner and then a flagging silence. 
 
 This was reliev^ed by a carriage driving up 
 and some servants tapping at the street door. 
 There was a bustle before, and then the door 
 opened and the servant announced Miss Cook, 
 the Misses Cushman, and Mr. Oushman. 
 
 A gentleman with three ladies joined us a 
 glance satisfied me that the Miss Cook was 
 Eliza Cook there could be no doubt of that 
 it was as if the portrait I had seen in Fleet- 
 street had been coloured rather highly magni- 
 fied many times, and slipped out of its frame 
 
 into Mr. \ drawing room. I knew her 
 
 lady companions, too, well enough, having seen 
 them a night or two before on the stage of the 
 Haymarket Theatre in the characters of Romeo 
 and Juliet. 
 
 Miss Charlotte Cushman, the elder of the 
 sisters, on the stage appeared very like Macready 
 but it was only when surrounded by scenery 
 in the glare of the footlights and dressed in 
 male attire that the resemblance was percepti- 
 ble. In a room and in feminine apparel, all 
 likeness to certainly the greatest living trage- 
 dian vanished, w^as lost ; a highly intellectual 
 
ELIZA COOK. 51 
 
 but certainly ca remarkably bomely looking lady 
 was all that you observed. 
 
 Miss Cusliiiian was much taller than her 
 friend Miss Cook, and less bulky indeed her 
 figure approached to the slender her face was 
 striking the large dark eyes were sunk in 
 cavernous orbits, the nose short, the mouth 
 capacious, and the chin long, projecting, and 
 pointed. She trod the carpet, much as she had 
 the stage, and talked in a deep tragedy-tone 
 reminding one of Mrs. Siddon's manner, when, 
 to the astonished lad who attended on her at 
 dinner, she exclaimed : 
 
 *' I asked for icatei-, boy you've brought me beer !" 
 
 Her sister. Miss Caroline Cushman, was a tall 
 fine and showy girl some might have and did 
 deem her pretty so she might have been, but 
 I did not exactly think her so she was lively 
 and unaffected, and not stilted like her sister. 
 It was a strange notion, that of these two sisters 
 playing love scenes, such as Romeo and Juliet 
 together ; and I take it quite an unnatural thing 
 too, for it was impossible, when witnessing the 
 Balcony and other scenes, to avoid the conviction 
 that two young ladies were trying to mystify 
 you. Besides, ladies always go out of their way 
 when they attempt to impersonate men's cha- 
 racters, however cleverly they may assume 
 
52 lions; living and dead. 
 
 them Bloomerism both on and off the stage 
 is an abomination which cannot too soon be 
 hooted down. 
 
 It fell to my lot to lead Miss Cook to the 
 dining-room, w^hich I was not sorry for, as I was 
 curious a little as to her conversability. Her 
 talk is much as one might have expected from 
 her appearance and manners there was nothing 
 remarkable about it any way but there was 
 one thing I beheld in her a perfect absence of 
 affectation. She spoke bluntly and without 
 mincing her words, and appeared partial to 
 politics. From what little she said I should 
 take her to be a red-hot radical but she did 
 not abuse other parties. 
 
 It was a blazing hot evening in June but 
 Miss Cook's dress was anything but adapted to 
 that sultry season she wore a flaring red-pat- 
 terned plaid dress, with fur cuflTs and a little 
 fur cape ; under her turned-down collar I al- 
 most think she had too a boa of the same 
 material, but I am not positive. One thing I am 
 sure of she looked so inflammatory that spon- 
 taneous combustion appeared by no means 
 impossible, and I do not imagine that any 
 Insurance Company would have protected her 
 life from fire without her paying for a trebly 
 hazardous policy 
 
 She seemed rather proud I thought of her 
 
ELIZA COOK. 53 
 
 well-known piece, " The Old Arm Chair," for 
 a gentleman present an autograph collector 
 asked her for hers she sat down at once and 
 copied him a verse of that hacknied lyric and 
 appended lier name. The recjuest was also 
 made hy others present and to each she gave a 
 script of the same piece. 
 
 Miss Cook at that time was much before the 
 public the proprietor of the Weekly Despatch 
 gave her i?:^00 a year for supplying that column 
 of the paper headed " Facts and Scraps, original 
 and select." This consisted of short extracts, 
 and paragraphs, and occasional poems of her 
 own. She became also gov^erness to Mr. Har- 
 mer's daughter and lived at Ingress Abbey, near 
 Gravesend, the country seat of that gentleman. 
 This arrangement caused some scandal which 
 she promptly met and refuted public writers 
 are always targets for malice and envy to shoot 
 at whatever Miss Cook's short-comings as a 
 writer may be there can be only one opinion 
 among all who know her, that her moral cha- 
 racter is beyond reproach. Of her origin little 
 is really known, and it seems to be purposely 
 concealed from the public, who have indeed no 
 right to be inquisitive respecting it but some 
 declare her of humble origin the more credit 
 due to her if such is the case some assert she 
 is married others aver that she is single and 
 
S4 LIONS ; LIVING AND I/EAD. 
 
 it is said also that Eliza Cook is an assumed 
 name. 
 
 She is an odd correspondent Poor Thom, 
 the Weaver- Poet of Inverury, showed me 
 shortly before his death, some of her epistles ; 
 they were flighty dashing affairs. In one of 
 them, I remember she scolded him for not 
 answering some letters of hers, and threatened 
 in the event of his not doing so quickly, to " con- 
 sign him to a place of rather warm temperature" 
 she also stated that if something or other (I 
 forget what) did not occur she would " drink 
 prussic acid out of a quart pot." Once I chanced 
 to be present when she called on Thom, at 
 Pentonville, where he then resided, and I shall 
 not forget the air with which she flung herself 
 into a chair planted her feet on the fender, 
 threw herself back and exclaimed, "give us a 
 glass of beer" a fine lady might have gone into 
 fits at the sight. 
 
 As I have intimated. Miss Cook is very 
 popular among the lower classes, and with those 
 who mistake sound for sense rhyme for poetry, 
 and mere jingle for harmony. Our authoress 
 has a ready pen and a facility of versification 
 which leads multitudes to suppose that she is a 
 true poetess, which I unhesitatingly declare she 
 is not " Old Dobbins," and " Arm Chair,'' 
 and " Red Shoes," and *' One-a-Penny-two-a 
 
ELIZA COOK. 55 
 
 Penny IIot-cross-Buns""* rhymes are not poetry 
 any more than ground out groan ings of street 
 organs are music. Miss Cook perhaps can em- 
 bellish a poker, and twine flowers round a three- 
 legged stool but she cannot write genuine 
 poetry; her verses may be chauntcd m tap- 
 rooms, and admired by simpering young gentle- 
 men and sentimental young ladies but they 
 never will dwell in the memories of those whose 
 ears are tuned to the melodies of inspired harp?. 
 But her strains have their own peculiar readers 
 readers who could not if they would under- 
 stand and appreciate the productions of the great 
 sons and daughters of song and so far all is 
 well but no future historian of our literature 
 will include Eliza Cook in the list of great poets. 
 Burns wrote for the masses as she does ; but 
 Burns had genius, and she is deficient in that 
 prime quality. Undoubtedly among the lesser 
 lights she may sparkle for a time ; but her 
 sphere is far removed from those of the greater 
 luminaries of song. They will shine ages hence 
 with undiminished lustre ; the Author of '" The 
 Old Arm Chair" will remain conspicuous also 
 but for a time not as a separate star in the 
 galaxy of genius, but as a scarcely appreciable 
 particle of light in that portion of the literary 
 hemisphere known as the milky (and watery) 
 way. 
 
oG 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 A "literary tavern" visit, with a peep at 
 
 SOME " punch" people.. 
 
 Within the shadow of Drury-lane Theatre, 
 which in the mist and gloom of the evening 
 looms up like a shadowy Titan, is situated a 
 tavern. It is so obscurely placed that ninety- 
 nine persons out of a hundred might pass it by 
 unheedingly, and fail to notice it. The front 
 is low and plainly painted ; in one window a 
 tempting row of chops and steaks may be ob- 
 served, and occasionally a head or two of game ; 
 beyond this there are no external attractions, 
 but a practiced eye would at once recognize the 
 house as one of the London literary resorts, 
 where good wine and good company are to be 
 met with. The sign of the house is " The 
 Crown." A short passage on the right hand 
 side of the doorway as we enter, conducts us to 
 the parlour. It is very small, very quiet, very 
 snug, and very comfortable. A few persons 
 only are in the room. Some of them are men 
 
A "literary tavkrn" visit. 57 
 
 of mark men whose names and works are as 
 familiar as household words. While we sip 
 our whisky punch, and smoke the light cigar, 
 let us observe them. There are other persons 
 present besides the Punchitcs, for the "Crown" 
 is a sort of house of call for actors, authors, 
 editors and artists. You will seldom find its 
 parlours without a sprinkling of gentlemen of 
 one or the other of these classes taking their 
 ease in this inn. 
 
 " Oblige me by showing me any one worth 
 looking at," said a country friend who accom- 
 panied me. " Is Dickens here ? I'd give a 
 crown to see him !" 
 
 " No, but one whose productions are closely 
 identified with those of ' 13oz' is in the room. 
 Look at that gentleman who is quietly 
 smoking his pipe directly opposite you." 
 
 Before us sat an individual of, I should say, 
 some fifty-three or four years of age. His head 
 was slightly covered with lightish coloured 
 hair, which, combed aside from one of his tem- 
 ples, displayed a remarkably high and intellec- 
 tual forehead. His eyes were grey and piercing, 
 yet quiet in their general expression ; the nose 
 was long and sharp ; the mouth well shaped, 
 and indicative of firmness ; this gentleman'^s 
 whiskers were so disposed as to render his ap- 
 pearance rather peculiar they terminated in 
 c 2 
 
6fi LIONS ; LIVING AND DEAD. 
 
 two sharp points, close to the angle of the 
 mouth, and were rather bushy on either side of 
 the chin. The complexion was pale, and the 
 expression of the combined features that of 
 grave thoughtful ness. In figure this gentle- 
 man was rather spare, and he evidently paid 
 little attention to the cut of his blue coat, 
 which hung on, rather than fitted him. Every 
 now and then he would address a remark to a 
 gentleman near him, in a low, pleasant tone, 
 but beyond this he said nothing which might 
 attract attention. 
 
 " Well !" asked Mr. Greenhorn, " and who 
 might he be ? There's nothing particular about 
 him that I am aware of." 
 
 " You will be of a different opinion presently ; 
 you see before you the Hogarth of his age the 
 caricaturist the humourist the moralist the 
 artist of whom it may be well said that ' none 
 but himself can be his parallel.' There, my 
 friend is the designer of ' The Battle,' George 
 Gruikshank." 
 
 " The deuce it is ! Why, I thought that 
 the inimitable George was a funny-looking fel- 
 low ; a sort of chap whose face, like Liston's, 
 would put you into fits ; I must confess that I 
 am somewhat disappointed."' 
 
 *' Very likely," I remarked, " we are all of 
 us more or less apt to hang up, in our private 
 
A " LITERAEY TAVKKn" VISIT. 59 
 
 aiul particular imago chainbors, imaginary por- 
 traits of those whose works liavo either in- 
 formed or delighted us, and it very seldom 
 happens that we hit upon anything at all re- 
 sembling the original." 
 
 Let it not, however, be supposed that the 
 celebrated artist is sipping aught else but Soyer 
 lemonade for he has of late become a Tee- 
 totaler and takes the chair occasionally at cold 
 water meetings. In spite of the absence of 
 ardent spirit, ho keeps the company around 
 him in good spirits. He is telling a story of 
 how his father, once, when visiting Old Bed- 
 lam, was shewn round the place by a quiet, 
 gentlemanly man. The visitor at length was 
 shewn a sort of cage, in which were some furi- 
 ous lunatics, heavily chained and otherwise 
 coerced. " Oh, sir," said the gentlemanly and 
 mild guide, " who do you think these poor 
 creatures are ! ' 
 
 " I really do not know," replied Mr. Cruik- 
 shank, senior. 
 
 " Why," confidently hinted the guide, " these 
 are the most dangerous class of lunatics, and 
 were you to venture among them, you would 
 be torn to pieces in a moment." 
 
 " Indeed !" said the visitor, with a shudder, 
 and a rejoicing idea that stout bars effectually 
 protected him. 
 
f>0 lions; living and dead. 
 
 " I am in there, myself^ nov/ and then, sir," 
 said the mild guide, " for I'm often seized all 
 of a sudden with ravings but I'm pretty quiet 
 now." 
 
 Mr. Cruikshank's father felt rather uncom- 
 fortable, and bade his guide good-bye as soon 
 as possible. 
 
 Mr. Cruikshank has a brother llobert, who is 
 also a fine artist ; but he has not the reputation 
 of George, whose works are like " legion." A 
 collection of them would be very valuable. 
 
 " Pray," said my companion, " who are 
 those gentlemen who have just entered, and 
 taken their seats near the fire X' 
 
 The two were as dissimilar in appearance as 
 it was well nigh possible for men to be ; the 
 one of them was tall, broad-shouldered, and 
 somewhat dandified in dress ; his face, rather 
 large and broad, was so twisted out of shape by 
 an effort to retain a quizzing glass before the 
 left eye, that it was next to impossible to make 
 out the natural expression, or shape, of the 
 different features. He had a rather consequen- 
 tial air, and his stare around the room was of 
 the boldest. It was evident, however, that he 
 was possessed of the nous no one, with half 
 an eye, could fail to remark that. 
 
 The second gentleman was of little stature 
 for he scarcely stood higher than the shoulders 
 
A " LITERARY TAVERN*" VISIT. HI 
 
 of his companion bnt his striking and re- 
 markable face at once attracted and fixed atten- 
 tion ; from beneath his hat, long hair of a 
 lightish colour, streamed over the collar of his 
 frock coat ; his sharp thin face was pale and 
 thought-worn ; from beneath a pair of bushy 
 eyebrows, curved inwards, peered out eyes 
 which looked into and through one. The nose 
 was long and hooked the lips firm and com- 
 pressed. Altogether the countenance was not 
 pleasing ; a half sneer played about the angles 
 of the mouth, and the brows were knitted dis- 
 agreeably. To me it was the face of a cynic, 
 and those of my readers who have read the 
 multifarious productions of this gentleman (and 
 who has not I) will agree with me that he does 
 a good deal in the sour line. 
 
 " Those individuals," I remarked, for the 
 edification of him beside me, " are two of 
 Punch's crack men. The tall one rejoices in 
 the soubriquet of Michael Angelo Titmarsh, 
 and is the well-known author of 'Jeames's 
 Yellow Plush Papers;' he is also a clever 
 draughtsman, as witness his desii^ns to his 
 ' Vanity Fair,"' and the little * bits,' with his 
 artistical mark to them (a pair of spectacles), 
 in ' Punch' it is Mr. W. M. Thackeray. 
 The other party is the still more celebrated 
 
62 LIONS ; LIVING AND DEAD. 
 
 author of ' Mrs. Caudle's Curtain Lectures,"* 
 Mr. Douglas Jerrold." 
 
 Should the reader be dissatisfied with this 
 limning of two popular writers, let him turn to 
 a clever design, by Doyle, in the tenth volume 
 of " Punch"' Punch presenting his book to 
 the Queen. Thackeray, Jerrold, Mark Lemon, 
 and other of the writers in our English " Cha- 
 rivari," are there admirably sketched the like- 
 nesses are capital, especially that of Jerrold. 
 
 In the course of the evening many noticeables 
 stepped in, among them one who, in a clever 
 monthly^ro^j^wr^, attempted to rival " Punch." 
 He was a young man, with dark, flashing lively 
 optics, curly black hair, a fresh complexion, and 
 a sort of dashing, devil-may-care air with him. 
 He chattered rapidly with his acquaintance, 
 kept perpetually on the move, and when he had 
 finished his ii;ro;i: was off like a shot. 
 
 " The ' Man in the Moon' hasjust gone out," 
 said I to my neighbour. 
 
 " You have left me in the dark, Master 
 Sketcher, pray explain yourself." 
 
 " VVhy, that dashing-looking genius who 
 quitted the parlour a minute or two since, with 
 a thin, frail-looking person in his company, is 
 the Editor of the ' Man in the Moon,' Mr. 
 Angus B. Reach, who may be considered one 
 of our 'smart' men. He's a clever ' chiel,' 
 
A " LITERARY TAVERN** VISIT. 63 
 
 that An;xu5. His conipanion is Mr. J. Hine, 
 who has pictorially chronicled Mr. Crinclle's 
 adventures in the same serial." 
 
 " Well, let's be toddling," said my country 
 cousin ; '* these wits upon pa; er are but dull 
 company after all." 
 
 " What, did you imagine that Cruiksliank 
 would convulse you with his humour Thacke- 
 ray describe a footman, and expatiate upon 
 tlunkeyism Jerrold recite a curtain lecture, or 
 Reach fire off a volley of puns for your aumse- 
 ment!" I inquired with some indignation. 
 '* Why you resemble the fellow who came to 
 London to see the Queen, and was disappointed 
 because the arms by her side were not the one 
 a lion, and the other a unicorn." 
 
 " That tall, stout personage, with the short 
 curly hair, red round face, Jewish nose, and 
 burly form, is Mark Lemon. He is the editor 
 of * Punch.' Some years ago Mr. Lemon 
 was a licensed victualler, and kept a public 
 tavern in Wych-strect or its neighbourhood. 
 He is what the Yankees would call a 'smart 
 man,' but oue wou'd not think so to look at 
 him. The spare, dark gentleman, talking to 
 him, is John Leach, who generally furnishes 
 the large caricature in each number, and who is 
 the main prtp of ' Punch's' pictorial portion. 
 
 *'0n one evening in a week known as 
 
64 LIONS ; LIVING AND DEAD. 
 
 ' Punch's night,' most of the gentlemen con- 
 nected with that journal assemble in an upper 
 room at the Crown. Admission can only be 
 obtained by a personal introduction. There 
 may be seen Tenniel, who has succeeded 
 Doyle, and, in short, most of the ' Punch Peo- 
 ple,' by any who are fortunate enough to procure 
 the entree" 
 
65 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 THE APOSTLH OF TEMPERANCE IN AMERICA 
 
 MR. JOHN B. GOUGH. 
 
 In the early part of January, a year or two 
 since, visiting in Philadelphia, and finding, 
 one dull, drizzling, damp morning, that time 
 hung heavily on my hands, 1 made an attempt 
 at killing it by applying to that usual refuge for 
 the destitute tourist, the newspapers. I soon 
 digested the whole of their contents, having 
 from the paucity of information contained in 
 the various hebdomadals actually devoured the 
 advertisements, which, by the way, were the 
 most amusing portions of the broad sheets. 
 This resource being exhausted, what was I to 
 do? It was not a day for walking, and were it 
 so, I had seen every thing of note in and about 
 the beautiful city of Brotherly Love. The Hall 
 of Independence, the Mint, Laurel Hill Ceme- 
 try, Franklin's Grave, the Girard College, bad 
 all been visited, and how was I to amuse my- 
 self, a stranger in a strange place I 
 
66 LIONS ; Livixa A.yD dead. 
 
 I sauntered to the door of my hotel, and 
 there had a melancholy view of the damp roof 
 of the Market House. Tirino; of this prospect 
 I planted myself i)efore the stove, and in pure 
 desperation took up a pamphlet on temperance 
 which lay on the table. There was not much 
 in it to interest me, but it was better, I thought, 
 than nothing, so I read on turning the leaves 
 over and over, on the principle which makes a 
 squirrel turn in his circular cage I read, be- 
 cause I couldn't help it. 
 
 There were several notices in that temperance 
 pamphlet of various lecturers on the subject of 
 total abstinence ; and a perfect host of para- 
 graphs respecting one of them, a young man, 
 named Grough, who had, it seemed, been cre- 
 ating quite a "sensation" wherever he appeared. 
 Anecdotes of considerable interest were quoted 
 as having been related by him, and from all 
 accounts, his progress through the various cities 
 and towns of the Union seemed to have been a 
 very march of triumph. 
 
 I am passionately fond of eloquent public 
 speaking, and therefore felt a great desire to 
 hear Mr. Gough ; nor was my wish long un- 
 gratified, for the rain being *' over and gone,'"* 
 I sauntered down Chestnut street, and in my 
 way saw a bill which announced that Mr. G 
 would address the people of Philadelphia in a 
 
MR. JOHN B. GOUGH. G7 
 
 church, on the following Sunday evening, and 
 thither at the appoiuted hour I repaired, ex- 
 pecting to he disappointed, for I have generally 
 found much-vaunted men to fall far short of the 
 standard erected hy their admirers. 
 
 Mr. Gough's fame having *' flown before 
 him," the church was, long before the appointed 
 time, crowded to overflowing. I occupied a 
 seat in the gallery, and in common with hun- 
 dreds waited anxiously for the appearance of 
 the second Father Matthew. As seven o'*clock 
 drew near, every eye was strained in order to 
 catch the first glimpse of him. There was a 
 perfect /^^ror. Surely, thought I, he must be 
 something above the mark ! but stay. 
 
 The minister, who regularly officiates in the 
 church, goes into the pulpit and sits down. 
 One or two persons behind me say it is after 
 seven o'clock, and very much fear that Mr. 
 Gough is not coming, and they are onlff going 
 to have a sermon after all. Presently there is 
 a stir near the door, and a grave-looking spec- 
 tacled personage, with hair 
 
 " halfway 
 On the road from grizzle to grey.'* 
 
 is seen pushing, with monstrous difficulty, 
 through the crowd. He is followed by a 
 young man, or rather by a young man's head. 
 
68 ' LIONS ; LIVING AND DEAD. 
 
 for whether a body belongs to it is doubtful 
 if there be, it bids fair to be so flatly squeezed 
 as to render seeing it edgeways a matter of 
 difficulty. On the grave-looking gentleman 
 and his companion push, and at length arrive 
 at the foot of the stairs leading to the pulpits 
 " There he goes ! that's Gough I him with the 
 spectacles on," whispers one to another, as the 
 grave-looking personage ascends the steps no, 
 that cannot be the orator, for we are told he is 
 much younger. Another individual mounts, 
 and a buzz goes round again a disappoint- 
 ment ! it is only the sexton, who is about to 
 regulate the refractory gas-burner. Perhaps the 
 secretary (for such is the gentleman with gray 
 hair and spectacles) is going to apologise for 
 Mr. Gough's unexpected, unavoidable absence, 
 &;c., &c. Oh, no ; no such thing, you may see 
 a young man following the sexton, and all at 
 once every eye is fixed on him, for every body 
 whispers to every body else " That's him." 
 And this time they are right ; for Mr. J. B. 
 Gough it is. 
 
 What ? that pale, thin young man with a 
 brown overcoat buttoned closely up to his chin, 
 and looking so attenuated that a tolerably per- 
 severing gust of wind would have no diffi- 
 culty in puffing him to any required point of 
 the compass that him who has swayed multi- 
 
Mn. JOHN B. GOUaH. 69 
 
 tudes by bis oratory. Made strong men weep 
 'like little cbildrcn, and women to sob as if tbeir 
 hearts would burst ! Yes look at his large 
 expressive eyes mark every feature, and you 
 see the stamp of no common man there. The 
 young apostle of temperance is before us. 
 
 After a brief address from Mr. Marsh, and a 
 prayer from the pastor of the church, a hymn 
 was sung, and then Mr. Gough came forward. 
 I had now a better opportunity of observing 
 him. His face was pale, and there needed no very 
 scrutinizing eye to detect on the brow of youth, 
 furrows which care and trouble had prematurely 
 ploughed there. Plis cheeks were very pale, 
 somewhat sunken, and their muscles were very 
 distinctly marked. The mouth, by far the most 
 expressive feature of the face, was of a benevolent 
 formation, (if I may so describe it,) and at 
 times a smile of inexpressible sweetness lurked 
 about it a quantity of dark hair nearly covered 
 his forehead, yet leaving one temple bare, indi- 
 cating a brain of more than ordinary capacity. 
 In dress he was extremely simple plain black 
 taken altogether, I have seldom at a first 
 glance felt so lively an interest in any celebrated 
 man (and I have seen many) as I did in Mr. 
 Gough. 
 
 It would be easy enough to give the matter 
 of Mr. Gough's address, but to convey anything 
 
70 LIONS ; LIVING AND DEAD. 
 
 except a very slender idea of his manner^ would 
 be a sheer impossibility, and I shall not attempt* 
 so hopeless a task. To be fully appreciated he 
 must be heard. He commenced by disclaiming 
 any intention of entering on an argument, and 
 said that he should mainly depend on facts, the 
 result of his own experience, or those of others 
 which had fallen under his notice. He then 
 described his own career as an intemperate 
 man, and drew pictures of such terrific power, 
 and yet so trutbful that his hearers shuddered 
 as they listened to the dreadful details. To 
 me, intemperance had never before appeared in 
 all its horrible, startling hideousness. The im- 
 pressions made by Mr. Gough on his audience 
 seemed to be profound ; and many of the pathe- 
 tic anecdotes drew tears " from eyes unused to 
 weep."*' 
 
 It being Sabbath evening, Mr. Gough did 
 not indulge in any reminiscences of a ludicroug 
 nature, but confined himself to a delineation of 
 the awful features of intemperance, as exhi- 
 bited every hour in our daily paths. His 
 illustrations were marvellously felicitous, and 
 most aptly introduced. Never did he utter 
 anything approaching to vulgarity, and often 
 his eloquence was of a high order. He told us 
 that he had never known the advantages of 
 education (a fact which none would have sus- 
 
MR. JOIIK D. GOUGH. 71 
 
 pectcd) ; that he had left England at twelve 
 years of a;e ; had suffered from poverty and 
 want in their direst forms, and had felt, when 
 death robbed him of all that made life dear, 
 that he was utterly alone. It was the most 
 awfully interesting autobiography I ever lis- 
 tened to. 
 
 It was my happiness after this to become in- 
 timately acquainted with Mr. Gough, and from 
 his lips I received the folio wini^, which for 
 tragic power is scarcely exceeded by any story 
 of real life which I know of no one, as Mary 
 Howitt once told me, could read it without 
 a tear. There is nothing in Dickens more 
 pathetic : 
 
 *' And now comes one of the most terrible 
 events of my history, an event which almost 
 bowed me to the dust. The summer of 1834 
 was exceedingly hot ; and as our room was im- 
 mediately under the roof, which had but one 
 small window in it, the heat was almost into- 
 lerable, and my mother suffered much from 
 this cause. On the eighth of July, a day more 
 than usually warm, she complained of debility, 
 but as she had before suffered from weakness, 
 I was not apprehensive of danger, and saying 
 I would go and bathe, asked her to provide me 
 some rice and milk against seven or eight 
 o'clock, when I should return. That day my 
 
72 LIONS ; LIVING AND DEAD. 
 
 spirits were unusually exuberant. I lau^^hed 
 and sung with my young companions, as if not 
 a cloud was to be seen in all my sky, when 
 one was then gathering which was shortly to 
 burst in fatal thunder over my head. About 
 eight o'clock I returned home, and was going 
 up the steps, whistling as I went, when my 
 sister met me at the threshold, and seizing 
 me by the hand, exclaimed, ' John^ mother's 
 dead P What I did, what I said, I cannot 
 remember ; but they told me, afterwards, I 
 grasped my sister's arm, laughed frantically in 
 her face, and then for some minutes seemed 
 stunned by the dreadful intelligence. As soon 
 as they permitted me, I visited our garret, now 
 a chamber of death, and there, on the floor, 
 lay all that remained of her whom I had loved 
 so well, and who had been a friend when all 
 others had forsaken me. There she lay, with 
 her face tied up with a handkerchief; 
 
 " ' By foreign hands her aged eyes were closed ; 
 By foreign hands her decent limbs composed.' 
 
 " Oh ! how vividly came then to my mind, as 
 I took her cold hand in mine and gazed 
 earnestly in her quiet face, all her meek, en- 
 during love, her uncomplaining spirit, her 
 devotedness to her husband and children. All 
 was now over ; and yet, as through the livelong 
 
MR. JOHN B. GOUGH. 73 
 
 ni^lit I sat at her bedside, a solitary watcher 
 by the dead, I felt somewhat resigned at the 
 dispensation of Providence, and was almost 
 thankful that she was taken from the ' evil to 
 come.' Sorrow and suffering had been her lot 
 through life ; now she was freed from both ; 
 and loving her as I did, I found consolation in 
 thinking that she was *not lost, but gone before.' 
 " I have intimated, that I sat all night watch- 
 ing my mother's cold remains ; such was lite- 
 rally the fact ; and none but myself and God 
 can tell what a night of agony that was. The 
 people of the house accommodated my sister 
 below. When the morning dawned in my 
 desolate chamber, I tenderly placed the passive 
 hand by my mother's side, and wandered out 
 into the as yet almost quiet streets. I turned 
 my face towards the wharf, and arriving there, 
 sat down by the dock, gazing with melancholy 
 thoughts upon the glancing waters. All that 
 had passed seemed to me like a fearful dream, 
 and with difficulty could I at certain intervals 
 convince myself that my mother's death was a 
 fearful reality. An hour or two passed away 
 in this dreamy, half-delirious state of mind, 
 and then I involuntarily proceeded slowly to- 
 wards my wretched home. I had eaten nothing 
 since the preceding afternoon, but hunger 
 seemed like my other senses to have become 
 
74 LIONS ; LIVING AND DEAD. 
 
 torpid. On my arrival at our lodgings, I found 
 that a coroner's inquest had been held on my 
 mother's corpse, and a note had been left by 
 the official, which stated that it must be in- 
 terred by noon of the following day. What 
 was I to do ! I had no money, no friends, 
 and what was perhaps worse than all, none to 
 sympathise with myself and my sister, but the 
 people about us, who could afford the occa- 
 sional exclamation, 'poor thing I"* Again I 
 wandered into the streets, without any definite 
 object in view. I had a vague idea that my 
 mother was dead, and must be buried, and 
 little feeling beyond that. At times I even 
 forgot this sad reality. Weary and dispirited, 
 I at last once more sought my lodgings, where 
 my sister had been anxiously watching for me. 
 I learned from her, that, during my absence, 
 some persons had been and brought a pine box 
 to the house, into which they had placed my 
 mother's body, and taken it off in a cart for 
 interment. They had just gone, she said. I 
 told her that we must go and see mother 
 buried ; and we hastened after the vehicle, 
 which we soon overtook. 
 
 " There was no ' pomp and circumstance* 
 about that humble funeral ; but never went a 
 mortal to the grave who had been more truly 
 loved, and was then more sincerely lamented, 
 
MR. JOHN B. GOUQH. 75 
 
 than tho silent traveller towards Potter's Field, 
 the place of her interment. Only two lace- 
 rated and hlccding hearts mourned for her ; but 
 as tho almost unnoticed procession passed 
 through the streets, tears of more genuine 
 sorrow were shed, than fre([uently fell when 
 
 " * Somo proud child of earth returns to dust' 
 
 " We soon reached the burying-ground. In 
 the same cart as my mother was another 
 mortal, whose spirit had put on immortality. 
 A little child's coffin lay beside that of her who 
 had been a sorrowful pilgrim for many years, 
 and both now were about to lie side by side in 
 the ' narrow house/ When the infant's coffin 
 was taken from the cart, my sister burst into 
 tears, and the driver, a rough-looking fellow, 
 with a kindness of manner that touched us, 
 remarked to her, ' Poor little thing ! 'tis better 
 off where 'tis.' I undeceived him in his idea 
 as to the supposed relationship of the child, and 
 informed him that it was not a child but our 
 mother for whom she mourned. My mother's 
 coffin was then taken out and placed in a trench, 
 and a little dirt was thinly sprinkled over it. 
 So was she buried ! 
 
 " There was no burial-service read, none. 
 My mother was one of God's creatures, but she 
 had lived died amongst the poor. She had 
 
76 LIONS ; LIVING AND DEAD. 
 
 bequeathed no legacies to charitable institu- 
 tions, and how could the church afford one of its 
 self-denying men to pray over her pauper- grave ? 
 She had only been an affectionate wife, a de- 
 voted mother, and a poor Christian ; so how 
 could a bell toll with any propriety as she drew 
 near to her final resting-place ? No prim under- 
 taker, who measured yards of woe on his face 
 according to the number of hatbands and gloves 
 ordered for the funeral, was there, and what 
 need, then, of surpliced priest ? Well, it was 
 some comfort to me, that my poor mother's 
 body could ' rest in hope,"* without the hired 
 services of either ; and I could not help feeling 
 and rejoicing that He who wept at the grave of 
 Lazarus, was watching the sleeping dust of his 
 servant. Oh ! miserable indeed is the lot of the 
 poor; a weary, struggling, self-denying life, 
 and then a solitary death and unblessed grave ! 
 " From that Golgotha we went forth toge- 
 ther ; and unheeded by the bustling crowd, 
 proceeded sadly to our now desolate chamber, 
 where we sat down and gazed vacantly around 
 the cheerless room. One by one the old familiar 
 objects attracted our notice. Among other 
 articles, a little saucepan remained on the ex- 
 tinguished embers in the grate, with rice and 
 milk burned to its bottom ! This was what 
 my mother was preparing for me against my 
 
MR. JOHN" B. GOUGH. 77 
 
 return from bathini^, ami the si^ht renewed my 
 remembrances of her care, which it so happened 
 was exercised for me in her latest moments. I 
 afterwards was informed that she was found 
 lying cold on the floor, by a young man who 
 passed our room-door on the way to his own, 
 and saw her laying there. She seemed to have 
 been engaged in splitting a piece of pine- wood 
 with a knife, and it is supposed that, whilst 
 stooping over it, and forcing down the knife, she 
 was seized with apoplexy, and immediately 
 expired." 
 
 Mr. Gough is an admirable mimic, and tells 
 a story with more efFdct than any other man I 
 ever listened to. His sarcasms tell with great 
 power, and his pathetic narrations are touching 
 and graphic in the extreme. He is about to 
 visit England, for the first time since his boy- 
 hood, and I predict he will create a vast sensa- 
 tion as a lecturer, for there is no one who can 
 be compared with him as a Temperance lecturer 
 in Great Britain ; but it should not be forgot- 
 ten by his wide and still expanding circle of 
 friends, that the great orator's talents are en- 
 shrined in an earthly and frail casket. Let 
 those who value his influence be careful of the 
 instrument, and not by overtasking him now, 
 prevent his future usefulness. 
 
 In connection with this subject of Tem- 
 
78 LIONS ; LIVING AND DEAI. 
 
 perance, perhaps I may be permitted to relate 
 a personal anecdote, to show the " smartness" 
 of Yankee boys. On a visit to America, six 
 years ago, I wrote some lines founded on the 
 fact of a screen being, in the grog-shops, placed 
 between the bar and the street door for the pur- 
 pose of privacy. I had only the original copy, 
 which I had twice repeated, by request, at a 
 meeting in a New England city, but gave no 
 copy away, and losing the only one in manu- 
 script, I soon forgot all about it. On re-visiting 
 America, this year, I happened to go to a Tem- 
 perance meeting, and to my surprise heard my 
 verses remarkably well recited by a youth. On 
 enquiry, I found that the lad had taken notes of 
 them from my reading years before, and got 
 them by heart, and then, by some means they 
 had been inserted in a new edition of " LovePs 
 United States Speaker," and so had acquired a 
 popularity which I had never dreamed of. As 
 they have been, I am told, recited by American 
 youths all through the States, I insert them 
 here that English lads may, if they please, do 
 the same. 
 
MR. JOHN B. GOUGH. 79 
 
 BEHIND AND BEFORE. 
 
 BsroRE and behind before and behind I 
 'Twere well if we often felt inclined 
 To keep these two little words in mind 
 
 That are pregnant with joy or sorrow : 
 Many a UXa of weal or of woe 
 This brace of significant syllables show, 
 From which we may all, as through life we go, 
 
 Instruction and warning borrow. 
 For instance look at the gaudy screen, 
 Wliich stands the bar and the street between, 
 To prevent Death's doings from being seen 
 
 By the passers-by on the paving ; 
 Before it, Sobriety gravely goes 
 With its cheek of bloom, and its lip of rose ; 
 Behind it. Drunkenness brews its woes, 
 
 Bodies and souls enslaving. 
 
 'Before and behind ! behind and before !" 
 I heard a toper once muttering o'er 
 The words and a rueful face he wore 
 
 As he chimed the syllables over ; 
 Before I drank of the liquid flame, 
 I had health and wealth and a right good name, 
 I knew not sorrow, disease, and shame ; 
 
 In fact, I was living in clover. 
 
 ' Before the screen I'd a purse well lined 
 A cou tented heart, and a cheerful mind ; 
 I had pleasures before I went behind. 
 
 Before but ah ! never after ; 
 Behind it, my money went day after day, 
 My pleasures, like summer birds, flew away ; 
 Behind it I darkened the mental ray, 
 
 And shrieked out the mirthless laughter. 
 
so LIONS ; LIVING AND DEAD. 
 
 " Behind, behind, and nothing before 
 But a prison cell or a workhouse door, 
 And a bundle of rags on a creaking floor. 
 
 In lieu of flock or of feather ; 
 Behindhand with payments when bills were due ; 
 Behindhand with cash, and with credit too ; 
 Before no fire when the fingers were blue 
 In the keen December weather ! 
 
 " Before the bar, but behind the times ; 
 Behindhand when sounded the early chimes. 
 When Industry wakens, and toils, and climbs 
 
 Up the rugged ascent of Duty : 
 Behindhand when little ones cried for bread ; 
 Behindhand with board, and bereft of bed ; 
 But before me a wife with a drooping head. 
 
 Whose anguish had marred her beauty. 
 
 ''Trouble and turmoil, and torture and gloom ! 
 Behind, all light, and before, no bloom ; 
 With no angel sitting upon the tomb. 
 
 To rob it of half its terrors ; 
 Behindhand, when the Sabbath bells stirred the air 
 Before no altar, to offer there 
 The incense of praise, and the voice of prayer. 
 For pardon of sins and errors. 
 
 ** Before the Judge ; and before one knows. 
 Knocked down by the law's tremendous blows, 
 Aud behind the bars, which in dismal rows. 
 
 Stand in front of our human cages ; 
 Behind the dismal curtain which hangs, 
 AVhere Remorse, the devil, infixes his fangs. 
 Inflicting on Earth infernal pangs. 
 
 As instalments of Satan's wages. 
 
 *' Behindhand always, and want before. 
 And a surly voice crying out, ' no more !' " 
 
MR. JOHN B. OOtTGH. 81 
 
 For the rum.si.01er never cluilks up a score, 
 
 Wheu he knowa the hist penuy'a expended. 
 No eye to pity no baud to save, 
 As the victim is tossed upon misery's ware. 
 Leaving nothing behind wheu he seeks the grave, 
 But the tale of a tragedy ended. 
 
 Behind his coffin no mourners go. 
 
 And when the clods on his corse they throw, 
 
 Folks cry " I thought it would be just so" 
 
 Then that toper fell to thinking : 
 "Oh I never fell so behind before," 
 Said he, as he turned from the bar-room door ; 
 And memory painted the smiles he wore 
 
 Before he had taken to drinking. 
 
 "Behind oh ! the drink has left nothing behind. 
 But a breaking heart, and a clouded mind. 
 And a serpent round all life's flowers entwined, 
 
 And a horrible shadow o'er me. 
 But I'll quit the cup, and no more be seen 
 A ruined creature, forlorn and mean. 
 And blinded no more behind the screen. 
 
 Have a sun-bright path befoi-e me." 
 
 We may wisdom learn from the simplest thing. 
 
 If lleison will only expaoi her wing, 
 
 E'on where Error lies coiled with its venomous sting, 
 
 And its not very hard to find it ; 
 A simple contrast like this may teach. 
 As well as an eloquent temperance speech ; 
 So before the screen let me beg and beseech 
 
 You never go behind it. 
 
 D 2 
 
82 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 THE "gypsies of SCIENCE." SKETCHES OF SIR I. 
 
 BRUNEL DR. DYONYSIUS LARDNER, DR. FARADAY, 
 
 WILLIAM JERDAN, aXD THOMAS MOORE. 
 
 There exists in this country, as every one 
 knows, a society, partly scientific, partly lite- 
 rary, denominated " The British Associa- 
 tion." Among its numerous members are to 
 be found the most eminent savants of the day. 
 Every day from all parts of the civilized globe, 
 the most distinguished philosophers flock to its 
 anniversary meetings, which continue during 
 six days, and are held in various parts of Grreat 
 Britain. It is this ijiigratory feature of the 
 Association which has conferred on its members 
 a title which, at the first glance, may appear 
 somewhat paradoxical ; for every one who has 
 read George Borrow's records of the Zincali, or 
 his recently written " Lavengro," must have 
 formed an opinion by no means favourable to 
 Gipsy acquirements in science. The nick-name 
 was bestowed on the learned vagrants by the 
 
SIR I. BEUN'EL. 83 
 
 London Times^ ajournal which, year after year, 
 has regularly iirocl a rod-hot hall into the camp 
 of the Philosophers, and of course it has stuck 
 to them ever since. Heedless, however, of 
 these attacks, the Association still pursues its 
 primary ohjects, and its members congregate 
 annually in some locality available for scientific 
 investigation. 
 
 On such occasions the " human curiosity'* 
 seeker has fine opportunities for gratifying his 
 passion for oddity-hunting ; for, in the multi- 
 tude of members are to be found some of the 
 most remarkable members of the genus homo. 
 Visit one of the general evening meetings 
 after the various scientific sections are closed, 
 and a strange medley will be presented to the 
 view. Antiquaries, as dry looking as their 
 most valued treasures, with coats rusty as the 
 old iron vases they describe, and with the "blue 
 vinny"'* in their very looks, chatter with daintily 
 dressed ladies, whom curiosity has drawn into 
 the profoundly scientific vortex, or converse 
 gravely with dovrdy blue-stockings, the most 
 unfeminine-looking of their sex. There a pro- 
 found optician may be heard explaining to 
 some wondering youngsters the mysteries of po- 
 larized light, or a learned chemist dilating on 
 the constituents of a candle. And the dreamy 
 poet, side by side with the matter-of-fact lover 
 
84? LIOXS; LIVING AND DEAD. 
 
 of statistics, listens to details far less fascinating 
 than the fictions of fancy, or the vagaries of the 
 imagination. Then, too, there are crowds of 
 idlers, mere starers at famous people ; artists, 
 who are seeking for subjects, and reporters on 
 the hunt for paragraphs ; persons who, in sober 
 attire, supply the black portions of the learned 
 harlequinade ; and gourmands, whose faces 
 brighten up when they behold the well-filled 
 tables ; for be it remembered that these assem- 
 bled philosophers despise not creature comforts, 
 and that the banquetting-hall on each day is 
 usually much bettter filled than either of the 
 lecture-rooms. 
 
 The limits of such a work as the present 
 effectually preclude minute details. I shall 
 therefore, from among a crowd of members and 
 visitors, select but a few notabilities as subjects 
 for sketching. The names of my subjects, I 
 fancy, are familiar both in England and Ame- 
 rica ; and so, some particulars concerning them 
 may be welcome. Let not the reader expect 
 finished pictures on these leaves ; if he does, he 
 will most assuredly be disappointed, for I only 
 profess to give mere outlines, which, after all, 
 are sometimes as effective as laboured produc- 
 tions. 
 
 Not very long since, the British Association 
 held its usual anniversary in the city of Bristol, 
 
SIR 1. KUi Ni'.L. 
 
 85 
 
 a ])l.'ice well calculated for sucTi a meeting ; for, 
 tliou;;!] the once second citv in Kn-'land has 
 talloii most woefully from its "pride of place/' 
 it is yet rich in association. It was witlnn its 
 ])rccincts that Sir Humphrey Davy laboured iu 
 his laboratory, and made some of his most 
 brilliant chemical discoveries. Thomas Cbat- 
 tertou was born there, and in his humble home 
 wrote the celebrated Rowley Poems. Bristol 
 was also the birth-place of the greatest painter 
 of his day, Sir Thomas Lawrence ; and of the 
 first prose-writer of his time, Robert Southey. 
 Bird, the painter, lived and died there ; E. H. 
 Bailey, the celebrated sculptor of Eve at the 
 Fountain, is a native. Coleridge and Words- 
 worth resided in Bristol, and there their first 
 poems were ushered into the world by a native 
 publisher of Bristol, Joseph Cottle, The pre- 
 sent celebrated Dr. Harris, author of " The 
 Great Teacher," and president of an English 
 college, is a Bristolian; Robert Hall, the prince 
 of modern preachers, spent in this commercial 
 city his early and closing years. Richard 
 Savage died in the debtor's prison of Bristol ; 
 and John Cabot, the discoverer of Newfound- 
 land, sailed from its wharf to that as yet un- 
 known shore. 
 
 Surrounded by lovely scenery, and filled with 
 relics of antiquity, in addition to the personaj^ 
 
86 LIONS ; LIVING AN1> DEAD. 
 
 reeollections associated with the place, it is little 
 wonder that in it one of -the most fully attended 
 meetings of the British Association was held. 
 And now, reader, let me crave the pleasure of 
 your company as I wander about during the 
 great gathering; for, partaking of the vagrant 
 nature of the members, to which allusion has 
 been made, I mean to describe my peregrina- 
 tions from one section to another, without re- 
 ference to order, but just as memory recalls the 
 events of my Bristolian pilgrimage. 
 
 It is nearly eleven o'clock, the hour at which 
 the philosophers are wont to assemble in their 
 various section-rooms. As these gentlemen 
 proceed through the streets to their different 
 destinations, a practised eye may, at a glance, 
 detect the peculiar vein of knowledge worked 
 by each. We will at present join the practical- 
 looking procession who are crowding into the 
 Mechanical and Engineering section, and lo ? 
 having exhibited our " open-sesame," we find 
 ourselves in a spacious hall, at the upper end of 
 which is a platform appropriated to the uses of 
 the President, Secretaries, and the lecturers of 
 the day. By the side of this is a place for re- 
 porters ; and being one of the Fourth Estate 
 for the "Athenaeum" has engaged us we join 
 our brethren of the broad sheet, sharpen pencils, 
 and prepare for the " encounter of wits." 
 
SIR I. BRUNKL. 87 
 
 A gentleman takes the chair, aiul all is at 
 once attention. Well may the most profound 
 respect be paid to hira, for he is one of the fore- 
 most men of the a<:;e. He is rather abov^e the 
 medium height, and inclined to corpulency. 
 At the first glance he presents no indications of 
 more than common talent ; but watch him 
 closely, and you will alter any opinion to that 
 effect which you may have hastily formed. As 
 he speaks, which he does with the slightest 
 foreign accent possible, his grey eye, half-shaded 
 by bushy, dark brows, kindles, and becomes 
 quite luminous with intelligence, an intelligence 
 conferred by the not high but broad brow, 
 whose summit is thatched with iron-grey hair. 
 The subject to be treated of is Ocean-Navi- 
 gation by Steam-ships, a topic of great; interest, 
 especially in Bristol, where a huge steamer, the 
 Great Western, is building, for the purpose of 
 dashing through the wild Atlantic to New 
 York, and so settle the vexed question. The 
 Chairman believes such a feat possible, and in 
 plain, common-sense terms, states the grounds 
 of his opinion. He is not eloquent : far from 
 it ; but, what is more to the purpose, he is con- 
 vincing, at least to most minds present ; to 
 most, but not to all, for a gentleman sits near 
 him, who, by sundry gestures, implies that he 
 
88 LIONS ; LIVING AND DEAD. 
 
 entertains opposite opinions to those enunciated 
 by the chairman. 
 
 The gentleman who so evidently dissents is 
 a somewhat singular-looking personaf2;e. The 
 cast of his countenance is decidedly Milesian ; 
 his face is large, square, and deeply marked by 
 lines running in many a direction. The brow 
 is low and broad, but a brown, unfashionable 
 wig does not set it off to the best advantage. 
 The eyes are small, twinkling, and assisted by 
 round-rimmed spectacles ; the brows are large. 
 On the whole, one is reminded of O'Connell by 
 the combined features, for there is a similarly 
 shrewd expression to that of the great Agitator. 
 A shabby blue moreen cloak, with a red plush 
 collar, entirely conceals this philosopher's figure, 
 which is,burly, and strongly built. A stranger 
 might take him for a hard-headed, middle-aged 
 gentleman ; but it is questionable whether one 
 in a hundred would consider him to be what he 
 assuredly is, one of the most scientifically 
 learned men of the age ; for, in fact, what he 
 has often been called, an encyclopaedia on legs! 
 
 The chairman and the individual just 
 glanced at are both of them men who have oc- 
 cupied a large share of public attention ; the 
 former is Sir Isambert Brunel, the great En- 
 gineer, and constructor of the Thames Tunnel ; 
 the latter, Doctor Dionysius Lardner, the 
 
DU. LARDXER. 89 
 
 editor of the Cabinet Cyclopredia, published by 
 the Lon,Mnans, and known to the readers of 
 Eraser's Magazine as the " Dinny Lardner" of 
 William Maginn. 
 
 Sir I. Brunei ceases to speak, and then follow 
 other scientific engineers. After these Dr. 
 Lardner rises, flings off his cloak, and exhibits 
 a rusty, snuff-stained suit of black. 
 
 All the world knows that at this very Bristol 
 meeting Lardner declared that the Atlantic 
 could not be navigated by steam ; and all the 
 world, too, knows that in a few months after- 
 ward the learned Doctor proved himself to have 
 been wrong, by taking a steam-trip to America 
 in company with Mrs. Heaviside, of Brighton, 
 she having left lier husband and young children 
 for love of the amatory philosopher, who, how- 
 ever, had his spectacles smashed most unscien- 
 tifically, and his wig burned by her enraged 
 and injured " better half." 
 
 I am quite aware that, very recently, the 
 Doctor has denied that he stated his opinion as 
 to the impracticability of ocean-steaming. 
 Hundreds, however, heard him so speak, and 
 the writer of this sketch was one of his 
 auditors. 
 
 But let us travel to the section of the 
 Chemists. No need to describe the exact locality 
 of the place w^here these analytical and synthe- 
 
90 LIONS ; LIVIKG AND BEAD. 
 
 tical gentlemen sit in session. Wherever it is, 
 we soon reach it, and fronting us as we enter, 
 sits a gentleman, whose countenance is so 
 striking, that having in the image chamber of 
 our memory the perfect recollection of a sketch 
 by Maclise, we know at once the said counte- 
 nance to belongto Michael Faraday, Professor 
 of Chemistry in the Royal College of Great 
 Britain, and perhaps the greatest of living 
 natural philosophers. What a face ! The hair 
 is black as the plumage of a raven's wing, and 
 parted exactly in the centre of the high and 
 comprehensive forehead. The eyes are large, 
 black, and remarkably sparkling, and are per- 
 petually glancing hither and thither beneath the 
 straightish- brows. Like Lord Brougham's 
 nose, those eyes are ever in motion ; the nasal 
 feature is long and well-shaped ; the mouth, 
 and lower portion of the cheeks, much like 
 those of Leigh Hunt. Indeed, Faraday, alto- 
 gether, resembles in person the author of 
 " Rimini."" His figure is tall and spare, not 
 lean ; his motions are sudden and frequent. 
 During two consecutive minutes, the great elec- 
 trician, as some call him, is never still ; but his 
 is not mere restlessness. One can see that his 
 great mind is always on the move, and so per- 
 haps influences the muscles of his frame. The 
 expression of his countenance is very pleasing, 
 
DR. FARADAY. 91 
 
 his voice sweet, and his manners courteous. 
 The profound philosopher seems to possess all 
 tlie gentleness, simplicity, and joyousness of a 
 child, giant as he is in science. He may not 
 unaptly he called, as he was hy Sydney Smith, 
 the laughing philosopher. 
 
 Dr. Faraday's origin was not aristocratic. 
 He was a book-binder's boy in London, and 
 from reading an article on electricity in a Cy- 
 clopaedia his master was binding, imbibed his 
 love of scientific research. He now stands pre- 
 eminent as a philosopher. As a lecturer, he is 
 charming, especially to juvenile classes, and his 
 courses are attended by the most brilliant of 
 audiences. It is sad, however, to know that 
 his prodigious studies have so serioiwly injured 
 his health, that several times he has been com- 
 pelled to abandon them. In a letter which, 
 some four years since, I received from him, he 
 complained of his memory becoming defective, 
 a symptom in the case of such a mind calcu- 
 lated to create great anxiety, at least. 
 
 On quitting Boston, six years ago, a packet 
 was entrusted to me, with a charge to deliver 
 it into his own hands. When 1 arrived in 
 England, I heard there that he was still at* 
 Brighton, and concluded to defer executing my 
 commission till his return. One night, while 
 
92 LIONS ; LIVING AND DEAD. 
 
 at a literary party at Camilla Toulmin's, I was 
 told that Faraday had returned to London. 
 
 " Where can I find him V I inquired. 
 
 " He is seldom .to be caught at home ; but if 
 you will go to the Sandemanian Chapel, in the 
 Barbican, any Sunday morning or afternoon, or 
 at seven on any Tuesday evening, you will find 
 him !" 
 
 "What! Faraday a Sandemanian T I asked, 
 in astonishment. 
 
 " Yes, a zealous one ; and he never misses 
 attendance at this chapel. Wet or dry, rain or 
 shine, he travels on foot to the Barbican." 
 
 I made up my mind to see him there, and 
 accordingly, on the very next Tuesday, dashed 
 through tbe Strand, posted along Fleet-street, 
 ascended Snow-hill, floundered through the 
 mud of Smithfield, and reached the Barbican, 
 which I may say is a long street, and not a 
 portion of a fortress. 
 
 With no little difficulty I discovered the 
 Sandemanian place of worship. It was situ- 
 ated at the end of a long passage, of about 
 three feet wide. Seeing some lights struggling 
 through a few low windows, I entered, and 
 found about sixty plain people assembled. In 
 the centre pew stood the thin, tall figure of a 
 man, w^ith a white head, the back of which I 
 could only see. This individual was in low 
 
mi. FA HAD AY. 93 
 
 solemn tones cxi)ouudintr a chapter of the New 
 Testament. That exercise ended, and with it 
 the service, for I bad entered late. The lights 
 were dim, and the voice low, so that I could 
 not tell who the expounder was. As an old 
 vyoman passed me on her way out, I asked her 
 if Dr. Faraday attended the chapel. 
 
 " There he is," she answered, pointing to the 
 gentleman with the grey hair. 
 
 The old lady very obligingly went to the Doc- 
 tor with my card, and told him that I wished 
 to see him ; whereupon he turned, and jumping 
 over the back of the pew with the agility of a 
 boy, (some ladies crowded it toward the door,) 
 hurried toward me. 
 
 I told him my errand, and placed the packet 
 in his hand. His face was all over smiles, as 
 usual, and I could scarcely recognise him to be 
 the same man who had been so solemn and 
 sedate but a few minutes before. 
 
 *' Queer place to find me in ;" said he in his 
 peculiar quick way. \Ve then walked home- 
 ward together, and he asked me a score of ques- 
 tions concerning the state of science in America. 
 The Christian philosopher (for such he is) be- 
 came suddenly a scientific querist, and I parted 
 from him in Regent-street. 
 
 I never saw a man so altered as Faraday. 
 He had grown in six years twenty years older 
 
94 LIONS ; LIVING AND DEAD. 
 
 in appearance. His raven hair was whitened 
 by intense study, and his brow was ploughed 
 with thoughtful furrows ; but his eyes were 
 dark and lustrous as ever. 
 
 Dr. Faraday is still the Royal Institute Pro- 
 fessor of Chemistry, and but a few months since 
 astonished the scientific world by his dia-mag- 
 netic revelations. In England he has no rival. 
 America alone can furnish a similarly great phi- 
 losopher, in the person of Dr. Henry, whose guest 
 I once had the happiness to be at Princeton, 
 New- Jersey, and who, in his laboratory, exhi- 
 bited to me some of his remarkable experiments 
 
 on light. 
 
 ***** 
 
 During this association-anniversay, Bristol 
 was visited by many eminent literary men, who, 
 among the ladies especially, were " lions.'"" I 
 was one day strolling through the College- 
 green with the late lamented Dr. William 
 Cooke Taylor, when he suddenly stopped, and 
 directed my attention toward a couple of gen- 
 tlemen who were coming along the tree-shaded 
 avenue towards us. These individuals, in re- 
 spect of personal appearance, were the very 
 opposites of each other, as I had an ample op- 
 portunity of observing ; for, on their nearing 
 us, they stopped to speak to my companion. 
 
 One of them was tall, and clumsily built : 
 
WILLIAM JERDAN. 95 
 
 his broad shouUlors resembled those of a porter; 
 liis long, ungaiuly arms hung clumsily by his 
 side, and terminated in huge hands, which, 
 being ungloved, reminded one of small shoul- 
 ders of mutton. His face was long, and its 
 features large : his bulging grey eyes appeared 
 anything but speculative ; and his monstrous 
 nose, and long chin, anything but resembled 
 those of Cupid or Antinous. The skin of the 
 face was rough ; it might be called granulated. 
 What little hair was discernible from beneath 
 a '' shocking bad hat," was grizzled. Yet, 
 spite of these drawbacks, there was an amiable 
 expression on the countenance, and some kindly 
 lines round the monstrous-lipped mouth. Nor 
 was the facial expression deceptive ; for beneath 
 that rugged frame was a generous heart, albeit 
 it belonged to a professed critic. Many a per- 
 petrator of books will bear me out in this, when 
 1 mention the name of William Jebdan. 
 
 Mr. Jerdan is, and has been for many years, 
 the editor of '' The London Literary Gazette,"" 
 a weekly review. Jerdan, to his honour be it 
 spoken, has done many a graceful and generous 
 thing for young literary aspirants, and has 
 always avoided the slashing style of criticism, 
 though he has been invariably just. He first 
 discovered, and was the means of bringing 
 before the public the genius of " L. E. L.," not 
 
96 LIONS ; LIVING AND DEAD. 
 
 until long afterward revealed as Letitia Eliza- 
 beth Landon, and who, when Mrs. Maclean, 
 died mysteriously in Africa, at Cape Coast 
 Castle, of which her husband was governor. 
 Had he never accomplished anything more for 
 literature than this, Jerdan would deserve 
 honourable mention. 
 
 As I have observed, Jerdan's companion was 
 the reverse of him in appearance. He was a 
 dapper little man, so short as to look quite 
 petite. His face was full of vivacity, and some 
 twenty years before must have been quite cap- 
 tivating. Captivating, indeed, it still was, 
 although in the angles of his bright, dark eyes, 
 those unniistakeable traces of Time's flight, 
 crow's-feet, appeared. The hair was crisp, and 
 slightly curly, but a little touched by the great 
 beauty-killer. A short nose, somewhat retrousse^ 
 gave a sprightly air to the face ; and the mouth 
 was small, and well cut. This gentleman's 
 small figure was very well dressed, but there 
 vvas not any fashionable foolery about it. A 
 black ribbon encircled his neck, and at its 
 extremity dangled an eye-glass, which near- 
 sightedness caused him frequently to use. As 
 he stood by Jordan's side, he scarcely reached 
 higher than the critic's elbow, and he reminded 
 one forcibly of Goldsmith's " abridgment of all 
 that was pleasant in man."" 
 
THOMAS MOORE. 97 
 
 Tho only thing approaching to affectation in 
 the stranger was a slightly mincing walk ; for 
 the sharp points of his nnexceptionablo boots 
 appeared to spurn the rough gravel of tho path- 
 way, and to long for a Brussels carpet. That, 
 however, might have been accidental, and 
 probably was. I felt sure I had met this gen- 
 tleman before, his face was so familiar ; but I 
 soon found that I had never done so, except in 
 frontispieces, and such like ; for no sooner had 
 the usual morning salutations been exchanged, 
 than Cooke Taylor introduced me to no less a 
 personage than Mr. Moore. 
 
 Yes, that small gentleman before me was 
 '* Thomas Little,"" the veritable Tom Moore 
 himself, Byron's biographer, Shelley's friend, 
 and Rogers's companion ; the author of " Lallali 
 Rookh," the " Irish Melodies," and a score of 
 other brilliant productions ! Jerdan and I had 
 met years before, and with him I then merely, 
 of course, renewed an acquaintance. 
 
 Moore, when informed by Dr. Taylor that 1 
 ^^as then engaged on the biography of Chatter- 
 ton, with both hands took one of mine, and said 
 several kind things of a little volume I had sent 
 him months before. Of course, when I left 
 him that morning, I was in the seventh heaven 
 of literary vanity. 
 
 I met Moore a few days subsequently at the 
 
98 LIONS ; LIVING AND DEAD. 
 
 table of a mutual friend, and was charmed with 
 his society. His conversation was rapid, spark- 
 ling, and full of epigrammatic point. His 
 manner, too, was most fascinating. What 
 else could have been expected from the Bard of 
 Erin? 
 
 Alas ! that I should have to close this sketch 
 with one sad recollection of Tom Moore. As 
 soon as symptoms of insanity appeared, and 
 before his brilliant fancy became entirely ex- 
 tinguished and rayless, he was taken to Lon- 
 don for medical advice. I met him once in 
 society, but he was a melancholy, silent man. 
 The beauty of his eyes still remained, but *' the 
 light of other days" had faded from them. The 
 death of a son had produced, it was said, this 
 affliction, but I imagine other causes might 
 have aided to crush his intellect. Years of 
 continued mental excitement frequently pro- 
 duce softening of the brain and consequent 
 idiocy, as in the cases of Dr. Buckland, the 
 geologist, and Hobert Southey. 
 
 A lady informed me that she, a short time 
 since, spent an evening at Moore's residence, 
 Sloperton Cottage, near Devizes, Wiltshire. 
 Mrs. Moore asked her to sing, and she, hoping 
 to rouse the dejected poet, played one of his 
 own Irish melodies. He listened attentively, 
 appeared pleased, and remarked that he fancied 
 
THOMAS MOORE. 99 
 
 he had heard it before, but could not recollect 
 
 when or where 
 
 
 
 Since the above was written Moore has died. 
 It is said that he has left a coiiiprchensive diary 
 behind him, which will be published under the 
 editorial superintendence of his widow. If it 
 be a faithful record we shall have some curious 
 revelations. 
 
100 
 
 CHAPTER VIL 
 
 A PAIR OF PARLIAMENTARY PORTRAITS 
 
 d'iSRAELI AND BULWER " CHANCELLOR OF 
 
 THE EXCHEQUER, BENJAMIN d'iSRAELI, 
 
 I WAS seated in one of the pleasantest of libraries 
 with one of the most companionable of friends 
 one bright morning in the spring of this year of 
 grace, one thousand eight hundred and fifty two, 
 in the little town of Newport, Ehode Island, 
 America, now glancing at the blue waters of 
 Narragansett Bay, and now dipping into a choice 
 book, or chatting of old times and old friends, 
 when letters and newspapers which had arrived 
 by the last steamers from England were 
 delivered. 
 
 Almost the first news which the broad-sheet 
 revealed was that of the downfall of Lord John 
 Russell's ministry, and the succession of the 
 Earl of Derby to office. This was not much to 
 be wondered at, but what startled me most was 
 the appointment of the speculative, novel- 
 
d'israeli. 101 
 
 writing; roniancist benjamin D'Tsraeli to the 
 pounds, shillings and pence office of Chancellor 
 of the Exchequer. There would have heen 
 something appropriate {\n the sotmd at least) in 
 the association of his name with the " Woods 
 and Forests" department ; or, considering his 
 Hebrew descent with the " Mint," but the 
 Author of Vivian Grey in connection with the 
 Budget, was too miich of a good thing. How- 
 ever, so it was Ben had quitted the domains 
 of fancy and fiction, for the less genial ones of 
 figures and facts, and his " vaulting ambition'* 
 had been gratified by an appointment to a seat 
 in the Cabinet. 
 
 What sort of a minister he will make Hea- 
 ven only knows, nor is this the place for specu- 
 lations on the topic but now that Ben the 
 younger occupies so prominent a place in the 
 Councils of his country, a sketch of him may 
 not be out of place. 
 
 About nineteen years since I first saw 
 D'lsraeli. I was then residing in a country 
 town in the West of England, dispensing 
 pills and potions to a portion of the in- 
 habitants of Somersetshire a county which 
 I heard Mr. Bickham Escott, in a fit of 
 Election-mortification, declare to be "famous 
 for the fatness of its soil, and the folly of 
 its gentlemen." To my utter surprise, I ono 
 
102 lions; living and dead. 
 
 fine morning found the neighbourhood placarded 
 with bills, which conveyed the (to me) startling 
 information that Benjamin D'Israeli, Junior, 
 Esquire, besought the suffrages of the electors 
 of the neighbouring town of Taunton and it 
 was announced that that gentleman would visit 
 the town on a certain day. 
 
 With " Vivian Grey'' fresh in my memory, 
 and the " Curiosities of Literature,*" of the 
 father of the Candidate, an intimate acquaint- 
 ance, there was enough of pleasant association 
 with the name D' Israeli to make me anxious to 
 see the aspirant for political honours, the more 
 especially, as, politically, I was, as they say, 
 " of his way of thinking." Accordingly, on the 
 day fixed, with eager anticipation I proceeded 
 to Taunton to look at and listen to the Lion of 
 the hour. 
 
 It was market-day and as usual there was a 
 great influx of people into the town on that 
 particular occasion it was literally thronged. 
 The excitement of an election speech had 
 drawn from their farms among the Somerset- 
 shire vales and hills, hundreds of tillers of the 
 soil, and of burly graziers who aptly illustrated 
 the doctrine that, 
 
 " Who feeds fat oxen should themselves be fat." 
 
 Great heavy-sloted looking fellows were they 
 
d'*israeli. 103 
 
 with little speculation in their eyes beyond that 
 which related to beer and cider. The trades- 
 men of the town too, were on the qui tite^ though 
 I fancy they knew as much about the qualifica- 
 tions or character of D'Israeli as about the 
 quadrature of the circle. He was a tory and a 
 " keen chap/' that was the sum total of their 
 information respectinn; him with the exception 
 of a few of the upper-crust people who had read 
 his works, I do not believe that more than one 
 man in one hundred believed when they heard 
 of *' Vivian Grey," or knew that it was not about 
 Earl Grey that Ben had written a book. How- 
 ever, he was a candidate for the honour of re- 
 presenting them in parliament it wasrumoured 
 that plenty of money would be sent flying 
 through the town that the public houses would 
 be open to all voters, free and so the " pot- 
 wallopers," as certain of the voters of Taunton 
 are called, rejoiced. They knew little and cared 
 less about literature, but beef and Burton had 
 charms for them which all the genius in Christen- 
 dom would never have displayed. 
 
 It was arranged that a procession should ac- 
 company the candidate into the town, so, snugly 
 ensconced in the window of a friend's house, I 
 anxiously awaited his arrival. Nor was my 
 patience put to any very severe test, for before 
 long the head of the procession was seen ad- 
 
104 lions; living and dead. 
 
 vancing through the town, the blatant trum- 
 pets mingling their tones with the bellowings 
 of bulls, and the " stormy music of the drumy"* 
 but half drowning the gruntings of fat hogs, 
 and the vocal utterances of whole hecatombs of 
 sheep. . 
 
 First came the band followed by a troop of 
 burly gentlemen of the soil, " in drab coats^ 
 broad brimmed hats and top boots ; then ap- 
 peared a long array of the principal professional 
 gentlemen and tradesmen of the town ^and then 
 a file of carriages in the rear of these was a 
 handsome vehicle decorated with banners, flags, 
 and flowers, in which stood, accompanied by four 
 or five gentlemen, the candidate. When I first 
 caught sight of him he was in the act of bowing 
 to some ladies, who from a window had flung 
 some flowers into his carriage. Alas ! they 
 were not as it turned out " strewed in a con- 
 queror's path !" 
 
 Seldom had I ever seen a more strange and 
 striking countenance than that of D' Israeli. 
 It was lividly pale, if there be such a tint, at all 
 events I can only so express it from beneath 
 two finely enclosed eye-brows blazed out a pair 
 of intensely black eyes. With the exception of 
 those of Daniel AVebster, I have never seen 
 such in mortal sockets. Over a broad but not 
 very high forehead clustered ringlets of coal- 
 
d'isuaeli. 105 
 
 black glossy hair which, combed away from hia 
 ri^'ht teiiiple, tell in bunches of well-oiled small 
 ringlets over his left cheek and ear, which latter 
 wjis thus entirely concealed by them. A half- 
 smile half-sneer played about his expressive 
 mouth the upper lip of which was curved in 
 the manner we see in Aunt D Orsay's people of 
 Byron. His figure was slight, and seemed too 
 small for the head which surmounted it. 
 
 I could not but fancy that whilst listening to 
 the " most sweet voices" of the town's rabble, 
 that he despised, in his heart, the clodhoppers 
 who could not even pronounce his name pro- 
 perly ; indeed his features features unmis- 
 takeably stamped with the Hebrew mai-k, 
 at times wore a contemptuous expression. He 
 was very she wily attired, in a bottle green frock 
 coat a waistcoat of white, which might now 
 be termed a "Dick Swiveller" pattern, the 
 front of which exhibited a network of glitter- 
 ing chains ; and large fancy pattern pantaloons. 
 Round his neck was a black stock, above which 
 no shirt collar was visible. On the whole, in 
 his person, intellect and foppery appeared to con- 
 tend for the supremacy ; but when one turned 
 from the consideration of broad cloth to brain, 
 the latter decidedly had the best of it. 
 
 As I have intimated, the windows in the 
 line of the procession were filled with ladies, 
 K '2 
 
103 LIONS ; LIVING AND DEAD. 
 
 decked in D'Israeli's colours. To these "Vivian 
 Grey" was prodi^^al of bows and smiles, and 
 many an exclamation of delighted surprise was 
 uttered by the Somersetshire belles, as his 
 slight form bent in graceful acknowledgement 
 of the cheers and waving of 'kerchiefs that 
 greeted his "progress." For ray own part, 
 regarding him rather in the light of a man 
 of genius than a smirking politician, I thought 
 of his books, and paid him mute homage. 
 
 Spite of speeches, and bows, and cringing 
 to candidates, and strong beer and promises, 
 of " the good time coming," D'Israeli lost the 
 election ; but, as a sort of salve to the sore, 
 the ejected candidate was a short time after 
 invited by the ladies and gentlemen of Taun- 
 ton to a public banquet in their Town Hall. 
 As, from reliable sources, I heard that Ben 
 had bottled up his anger for the occasion, I 
 took care to be present at the uncorking. 
 
 The day came, the room was exceedingly 
 crowded, and when every thing was in rea- 
 diness, Mr. D'Israeli made his appearance in 
 the room, escorted by a procession of his 
 friends and admirers, and was hailed with 
 the most vociferous cheering. Surrounded as 
 he was, by stalwart yeomen, and ponderous 
 people of the soil, habited in plain attire, his 
 slender, graceful distingue figure, attired in 
 
d'isuaeli. 107 
 
 the height of fashion, presented a very re- 
 markable contrast. Having taken his place 
 on the left of the president, a red-faced 
 clergyman mumbled a hasty grace, and the 
 business of eating and drinking commenced 
 which being got through, the true and most 
 attractive portion of the day's proceedings 
 commenced. 
 
 After the usual loyal and constitutional 
 toasts had been drunk, the president proposed, 
 *'in a neat speech," as the newspapers say, 
 the health of their distinguished guest ; and 
 when the applause which followed it subsided, 
 D' Israeli rose to respond to the many com- 
 pliments that had been paid him. 
 
 He commenced his speech in a lisping-lack- 
 a-daisical tone of voice, which, had I not listened 
 to it, I never could have taken for that of the 
 vigorous author of " Vivian Grey." He minced 
 his phrases in apparently the most affected 
 manner, and whilst speaking, placed his jewel 
 studded hands in all imaginable positions 
 not because he felt awkward and did not know, 
 like a booby in a drawing-room, where to put 
 them, but apparently for the purpose of dis- 
 playing to the best advantage the glittering 
 treasures on his white and taper fingers. Now 
 he would place his thumbs in the arm-holes of 
 bis waistcoat, and spread out bis fingers on its 
 
108 LIOKS ; LIVING A.ND DEAD. 
 
 flashy surface, then the set of digits would be 
 released, and seek repose on his hip, or he would 
 lean affectedly on the table, supporting himself 
 on his left hand, anon he would push aside the 
 glossy curls from his forehead but it would be 
 impossible to chronicle all his movements. At 
 that time Dickens had not created Mr. Manti- 
 lini, or that personage might hav^e been cited 
 as D'Israeli's prototype. 
 
 But as he proceeded all traces of this orato- 
 rical dandyism and affectation were lost. With 
 a rapidity of utterance perfectly marvellous, he 
 referred to past events, and prophecied those 
 which were to come. The whigs were, of 
 course, the objects of his unsparing satire, and his 
 eloquent denunciations of them were applauded 
 to the echo. In all he said, he proved himself 
 to be the finished orator. Every period was 
 rounded with the utmost eloquence, and in his 
 most daring flights, when one trembled lest he 
 should fall from the giddy height to which he 
 had attained, he so gracefully descended, that 
 every hearer was wrapped in admiring surprise. 
 His vast information seemed scarcely less 
 limited than his brilliant imagination. Even 
 common-place topics in his hands underwent 
 transformation, by a process of mental alchemy, 
 Midas-like, all he touched he turned into 
 gold. Yet was there no lack of good, sound 
 
D^ISRAELI. 1 00 
 
 sterling common sense be never forgot the 
 real in the ideal. Ills voice, at first so unsatis- 
 factory, f^'radually becomes full, musical, and 
 sonorous, and with every varying sentiment, 
 was beautifully modulated. No longer the 
 hands appeared to bo exhibited for show but 
 the hands' eloquence was most effective. The 
 dandy was become a giant of intellect. The 
 Mantalini had been transmuted into a prac- 
 tised orator. He spoke for more than two 
 hours, having in the course of his speech em- 
 braced a vast range of subjects, many of them 
 seeming, at the first start, to have no connec- 
 tion with the theme of the day, but which he 
 managed to bend to his purpose, and to invest 
 with a charm. When he sat down the 
 applause which followed fitly rewarded the 
 triumph of oratory. 
 
 On the evening of that day I sat in the 
 box next him at the theatre, where, of course, 
 he was a greater attraction than the men 
 who were murdering Shakspere. But what 
 a change t D'lsraeli was the dandy once more, 
 attired in the extreme of fashion ; he sat with 
 the same sarcastic smile on his countenance, 
 which I had observed in the morning; and 
 whil* applaudingly he patted the edge of his 
 box with his primrose-gloved hand, there was 
 
110 lions; living and dead. 
 
 a mockingly scornful expression in his lustrous 
 
 eyes. 
 
 ***** 
 
 Fifteen years had passed away, and I once 
 more saw D'Tsraeli. It was in the House of 
 Commons. Buckinghamshire had elected him, 
 and under the wing of the Duke of "that 
 ilk" and Lord George Bentinck, he was fight- 
 ing the battles of the Protectionists. Years 
 and work had left their traces on his features, 
 his form had "filled-out" somewhat, and his 
 face was marked with deep lines. The skin 
 of the face was of an ashy hue, and the eyes 
 more deeply sunk, but there was the same 
 scornful mouth the same half cynical expres- 
 sion of the whole face. Still the curls were 
 abundant and glossy, as of yore ; and still, too, 
 was there the same spice of dandyism. At 
 that time he was, as the Americans have it, 
 " going death upon Peel," whom he certainly 
 worried most unmercifully ; bat, who, though 
 he felt the annoyance, did not allow a muscle 
 of his face to betray his uneasiness. Who does 
 not remember Leech's caricature, in "Punch," of 
 D'Israeli, as a serpent gnawing a file, the handle 
 of which was a smiling face and head of Sir 
 Robert Peel ? 
 
 A very short notice of Sir Edward Bulwer 
 Lvtton, as he used to be when in the House, 
 
SIE E. n. LYTTOK. 1 1 1 
 
 may not bo out of place hero. If, reader, you 
 have formed any idea of the man from the ridi- 
 culously effeminate portrait of him, by Maclise, 
 you will have no true idea of him. Instead 
 of the spruce poppin<; sort of personage, who 
 figures in the picture alluded to, you behold a 
 man, not slight, and still of the middle height; 
 nor stands he bolt upright, as the partial por- 
 trait painter represents him ; for, there is a 
 considerable bend in his back, and his legs are 
 anything but good. Over his bowed shoulders 
 are generally, ill-fitting garments ; whereas, 
 from the frontispieces to many of his works, 
 one would take him to be a dandy of the first 
 water. 
 
 But let us observe him as he rises in his 
 place in the House to speak. Now that his 
 hat is removed, his well-shaped head is observ- 
 able. Perhaps a phrenologist would be puzzled 
 by the forehead, which is too low, but broad 
 enough. The nose is large and well shaped, 
 the hair light and wavy, but the whiskers, 
 which are ample, are tinged with red. As a 
 speaker, he is nothing to compare with D'Israeli. 
 His voice is low, clear, and pleasant ; but ho 
 lacks the faculty of " thinking on his legs" 
 an art more difficult of acquirement, if it can 
 be acquired, than persons unaccustomed to 
 *' public speaking" might be apt to suppose. 
 
112 lions; living and dead. 
 
 He hesitates a good deal, and seldom goes to 
 the point, except hy a roundabout way, re- 
 minding one of the man whose modes of think- 
 ing were so tortuous, that Sydney Smith said, 
 he must have been born with a corkscrew in 
 his head. His action, too, is ungraceful, and 
 he fidgets much whilst speaking. It is evident 
 that he is made rather for an author than an 
 orator. With him, hand and head must go 
 together. 
 
 Let it be remembered that Sir Bulwer Lyt- 
 ton is sketched here, as he was when in Par- 
 liament. For some years past he has not had 
 a seat ; but, in the next Session, it is more 
 than probable, he will be an M.P. again. Of 
 late, he has been of good service in establishing, 
 or helping to establish, the " Guild of Litera- 
 ture and Art :" and the " Water Cure" has 
 gained an added reputation from his laudation 
 of it. 
 
 I am writing these reminiscences in the New 
 World, where the works of Bulwer Lytton 
 and D'Israeli are highly popular ; wherever 
 you go, you see cheap copies of them. In con- 
 nection with these cheap reprints, the following 
 anecdote, which is not bad : 
 
 " A gentleman, crossing one of the New 
 York ferries, was accosted by one of those peri- 
 patetic venders of cheap literature and weekly 
 
SIR E. n. LYTTON. 113 
 
 newspapers, who are to bo found in shoals 
 about all our public places, with 'Jkiy Bulwer's 
 last work, sir? Only two shillings/ The 
 gentleman, willing to have a laugh with the 
 urchin, said, ' Wliy, I am Bulwer myself?'' 
 Off went the lad, and whispered to another, at 
 a little distance, exciting his wonderment at 
 the information he had to impart. Eyeing 
 the pretended author of ' Pelhara' with a kind 
 of awe, he approached him timidly, and holding 
 out a pamphlet said, modestly, ' Buy the 
 *' Women of England," sir ! you're not Mrs. 
 Ellis, are you :' Of course, the proposed sale 
 was effected." 
 
114 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 A SKETCH OF A GREAT METROPOLITAN 
 SKETCHER. 
 
 Some years ago, two volumes, purporting to be 
 " Random Recollections" of the two Houses 
 of Parliament, made quite a stir among a cer- 
 tain set of book devourers. Personal gossip 
 is always attractive ; for we, all of us, more 
 or less, like to know something of the appear- 
 ance, every day life, and habits of people who 
 occupy prominent positions in society. In a 
 happy moment, so far as money-making was 
 concerned, an individual undertook to chronicle 
 the " personalities" of the members of the 
 Houses of Lords and Commons, and to render 
 familiar to every body the colour of their hair 
 and the shapes of their noses. These details, 
 mixed up with stories, probable and impro- 
 bable, "took," as the phrase is, and the volumes 
 in question were followed by others of a similar 
 nature, such as the " Bench and the Bar," 
 the " Metropolitan Pulpit," *' Portraits of 
 
AIR. JAMK6 OliAXT. 115 
 
 Public People/' and the ** Great Metropolis/' 
 For some time curiosity was rife as to tbo 
 author, but at length it came out that one 
 Mr. James Grant was the scribe. 
 
 Had it not been for the interest associated 
 with the subjects of which these volumes 
 treated, they would not have been tolerated 
 for a moment. They were wretchedly written, 
 and as compositions universally laughed at. 
 The author's style if style that could be 
 called which more resembled a gait^ was of 
 the jerking order every sentence jumped, as 
 it were. But it was personal ; and there lay 
 the secret of success. People forgave the lan- 
 guage, for the sake of the information it con- 
 veyed. But when, at length, it was ascertained 
 that this news was by no means to be relied 
 upon, *' Great Metropolis Grant," as he was 
 termed, ceased to attract readers, and his 
 literary fame sunk to rise no more. 
 
 The awfully smashing notice of Mr. Grant's 
 " Recollections," in " Frazer's Magazine," 
 under the heading of " The Book of Errors,'"* 
 at once damned it as a work entitled to any 
 authority. The succeeding volumes gradually 
 became worse and worse, until they ceased 
 altogether, and no longer we read his '* Ran- 
 dom" reminiscences of great men. Mr. Grant 
 had not suflScient stuff in him to enable him 
 
116 LIONS ; LIVING AND DEAD. 
 
 to measure and describe such men as Peel, 
 Macaulay, and others in Parliament. Only- 
 one man in modern times has done it well, 
 and that is Mr. Francis, whose " Orators of 
 the Age" is an admirable and truthful work. 
 However, like certain razors we read of in 
 " Peter Pindar," Mr. Grant's books were 
 "made to sell," and, to a certain extent, the 
 object was attained. 
 
 Would you behold this Sketcher, reader, 
 this " picker up of unconsidered trifles V 
 Then from the snug corner of the Speaker's 
 Gallery, in the House of Commons, behold, 
 among the " gentlemen of the Press," a mid- 
 dle-aged individual, with a grimy sort of a 
 complexion, short, dark, half-curly hair, a 
 Scottish physiognomy, and a rather spare 
 figure, he is taking notes (we are referring 
 to Mr. Grant's position, ten years ago,) for 
 some newspaper, for he is a reporter, as well 
 as a book-maker. There is nothing at all 
 remarkable about him, excepting that he is 
 by no means so smart a looking fellow either 
 in dres?, demeanour, or face, as any one of 
 those by whom he is surrounded. He is, in 
 short, one of those sort of men who, do what 
 they might, would never come under the 
 class of " noticeables."" 
 
 A few years have passed away, and lo ! ou 
 
-rU. JAMES GRANT. 117 
 
 Book-maker has got into the editor's chair of a 
 London Paper. Ho is the director of the 
 *' Morning Advertiser" the " Tap- tub," as 
 the journal is profanely called, because it be- 
 longs to the Licensed Victuallers association, 
 and advocates and attends to the interests of 
 publicans. Mr. Grant's *' leaders" in this paper 
 are sometimes rather rich. We believe ho 
 never writes one without reference to some 
 accomplished prediction of his own. They 
 are not first-rate, but are very well suited to 
 capacities of these gentlemen, who in tap- 
 rooms 
 
 *' Empty their pints and sputter their decrees j" 
 
 If they are not quite equal to the brilliant 
 essays of the "Times," they are far more adapted 
 to the tastes of the public (house.) 
 
 Turning over some old numbers of the " Arc- 
 turus,"" an American literary journal, edited by 
 Mr. Cornelius Mathews, of New York, we 
 chanced to light on the following article, which 
 appeared under the heading of " Mr. James 
 Grant." It is not by any means badly done, 
 and in some parts presents fair hits at our au- 
 thor's mannerisms. If Mr. Grant be as sensible 
 a man, as we think he is a shrewd one, ho will 
 laugh heartily at this transatlantic " taking ;" 
 
118 lions; ltving and dead. 
 
 at least, he cannot, after having touched oiF 
 others, object to a sketch of himself. 
 
 " Mr. James Grant, the celebrated British 
 author, stands about five feet three in his stock- 
 ings; on reflection we should perhaps say five feet 
 four. His breadth across the shoulders is not 
 more than ordinary ; but we trust we shall not 
 be regarded as trespassing on delicacy in making 
 known a fact of considerable importance, name- 
 ly, that he has a singularly well developed pair 
 of legs. We are not aware that Mr. Grant 
 has ever been esteemed by anybody, as strictly 
 speaking, a Colossus ; but, as will be observed 
 from the remark we have just made, his claims 
 to be regarded as such are by no means slight. 
 The story, therefore, of Mr. Grant's having 
 kicked an Irish porter through one of the upper 
 windows of Westminster Abbey, although 
 needing confirmation, is physiologically pos- 
 sible. 
 
 " Mr. Grant commenced life, as we are in- 
 formed having no personal knowledge of this 
 fact, we cannot be so positive in the statements 
 as we might otherwise have been as a tapster 
 at the Cock and Bui], Cheapside ; from wdiich 
 situation, he rose in due course of time to be 
 head waiter at the Gas and Bellows, Strand ; 
 and finally, having been discovered one day 
 by the editor of one of the London journals, 
 
Mil. JAMES GRANT. 119 
 
 writing out an account of a fight between the 
 barmaid and cook of the Hostelry, on one of 
 the parlour windows, with a bit of crystal, he 
 was immediately taken into service as a re- 
 porter, and employed to furnish nightly descrip- 
 tions of the various rencontres in the House of 
 Lords, between ^onoura])le gentlemen, on the 
 subject of the Reform Bill. We, unfortunately, 
 have it not in our power to state at this mo- 
 ment whether he occupied a place in the left 
 hand gallery, to the right of the speaker's chair, 
 or to the left of the speaker, in the right gal- 
 lery ; our impression is that it was the left- 
 right. A curious story is told, illustrative of 
 this part of Mr. Grant's career, which although 
 not of the slightest earthly importance, may be 
 worth repeating here. It is said, that a pet 
 donkey belonging to a coal-heaver, in a neigh- 
 bouring street, was in the habit of watching the 
 messenger who was sent from the office of the 
 journal in question, to receive such supplies of 
 night reports as Mr. Grant might be prepared 
 to furnish. Just as he turned the corner, lead- 
 ing to the door of St. Stephen's, the donkey, 
 fixing his eye steadily on the editor's messenger, 
 would start off at a smart gallop, and as a mat- 
 ter of course, reach the door several seconds 
 before the messenger, and would set up a por- 
 tentous bray, as if to give notice to Mr. Grant 
 
120 lions; living and dead. 
 
 that more " copy," as it is technically styled, 
 was needed. This summons, we need scarcely 
 add, Mr. Grant at all times, cheerfully answer- 
 ed ; placing it smilingly in the editor's hand. 
 
 "With regard to Mr. Grant's personal habits, 
 we have it, fortunately, in our power to be very 
 particular. In the morning, having first 
 washed, shaved, and breakfasted, he grasps 
 his cane, and sallies forth ; his first call is on 
 the valet of the Duke of Wellington, and 
 having ascertained, to his entire satisfaction, 
 that his grace had a tranquil night of it, that 
 he had already written, and is engaged in an- 
 swering his correspondents, in a blue dimity 
 morning gown, Mr. Grant wishes the valet 
 " good morning," and descends the steps. His 
 next business is to trip up a one-legged beggar, 
 and while apologising for the accident and ad- 
 ministering alms, he draws from him an accu- 
 rate account of the various impostures practised 
 by the metropolitan mendicants on the unwary, 
 by the way of forged letters, calls on behalf of 
 the families of deceased naval officers, and 
 applications for the relief of sick widows, with 
 seven small children, of which two are always 
 at the breast. Mr. Grant then, in all probabi- 
 lity, takes a pot of small-beer at the nearest 
 tavern ; and seeing, just at that moment the 
 coach of Lord Brougham entering town with 
 
MR. JAMES GRANT. 121 
 
 a vacant place on the box, lie invites himself to 
 a ride, and ascending, by the ordinary "aids," 
 he takes a scat by the side of his lordship's 
 coachman, and enters into a very pleasant gos- 
 siping conversation with the functionary, in 
 the course of which he learns a vast deal 
 about the characteristic habits of his lordship ; 
 amongst others, of a peculiarity his lordship 
 has of winking at his footmen when off duty, 
 and of indulging himself in throwing miracu- 
 lous somersets, backwards and forwards, over 
 the top of the coach, whenever it has occasion 
 to stand still for a couple of minutes at a time. 
 Before leaving his elevated friend, Mr. Grant, 
 probably, extorts from him a promise that if 
 his lordship should chance to drop his wig in 
 the course of any of these surprising gymnastic 
 exercises, to bring it straightway to him, at the 
 
 office of the Journal, of which he is 
 
 editor, and receive half-a-crown for his pains. 
 
 But Sunday is, by all odds, the busiest day 
 with Mr. Grant. From morning till night he 
 is on the move ; popping his head in at Doctor 
 Croly's church, in time to hear that distinguished 
 orator announce his text ; hurrying away to 
 hear Mr. Fox, the Unitarian clergyman's 
 firstly ; the Rev. Mr. Melville's secondly, or 
 thirdly; the Hon. and Rev. Baptist Noel's 
 fourthly, and so on, through all the Divines of 
 
122 lions; living and dead. 
 
 the metropolis. It is said, there is not a man 
 in London who performs a more laborious Sab- 
 bath-day's work, than Mr. Grant, including 
 even the clero^ymen who preach three times 
 and the gentlemen who sing bass in the various 
 metropolitan churches. 
 
 By "the way, we should not forget to men- 
 tion here, that the gentleman is the author of 
 '' Random Recollections of the House of 
 Lords," in one volume, post octavo ; *' Random 
 Recollections of the House of Commons,'"&;c., 
 &DC. ; two series of " The Great Metropolis," 
 two volumes each ; " The Metropolitan Pul- 
 pit," we forget how many volumes ; "Sketches 
 of London,"' in one volume, with cuts, and 
 some other works. It is not positively known 
 whether Mr. Grant has ever written poetry, 
 (these works being all in prose,) but it is sup- 
 posed, if he should ever undertake poetry, it 
 would be his object to rival Sir Richard Black- 
 more ; and by many it is considered, that should 
 he make the attempt, he would be successful. 
 
 The intellectual characteristics of Mr. Grant 
 are easily made out. His style, although per- 
 haps it cannot be said to be equal to that of 
 Mr. JefFerey, or Babington Macaulay, in bril- 
 liancy, is certainly one of the most remarkable 
 of the present day. There seems to be in this 
 distinguished genfcleman''s mind, if we may 
 
MR. JAMRS GRANT. 123 
 
 vonturo on so bold a phraso, a sort of circum- 
 anibiency, which leads him to beat about his 
 subject, keeping in the meantime at a due dis- 
 tance from it, much as our readers may have 
 observed, as one of the horses on sale at Tat- 
 tersall's, keeps dancing round the jockey, who 
 holds a rein and whip in his hand, looking at 
 him with great earnestness and gravity, but 
 taking heed, meanwhile, to ke?p respectfully 
 out of his reach. That this is owing to a very 
 peculiar conformation of intellect, on the part 
 of Mr. Grant, we are satisfied, but nothing 
 could be happier than the singular style for the 
 class of subjects he has chosen, being chiefly 
 distinguished statesmen, mighty divines, and 
 gigantic bibliopoles ; to use a significant phrase, 
 which ^Ir. Hume frequently employs in the 
 course of one of his economical speeches, 
 "It'sjust the thing!'' 
 
 Nothing could be more artful than Air. 
 Grant's narrative of what he has seen ; and we 
 are satisfied, if it should ever be his good or 
 evil fortune to meet with a dog Cerberus, we 
 should immediately have three graphic biogra- 
 phies from his pen, one for each head, and 
 the same of a hundred-headed hydra, if he 
 should ever happen to fall in with one ; a life 
 for each cranium, or one tremendous life in a 
 liundred volumes ! Mr. Grant's pictures are 
 
124* LIONS ; LIVING AND DEAD, 
 
 all full lengths ; and, although he cannot be 
 said to be strictly rhetorical in his manner, yet 
 there are very few divines who can equal him 
 in subdivisions, in dwelling skilfully on a topic, 
 and in going back to it, after it is utterly ex- 
 hausted. In fact, we are pretty well convinced, 
 although we have no positive information on 
 the subject, unless our moral conviction that 
 such is the case can be so considered, that Mr. 
 Grant''s habits of writing are, like those of our 
 countryman, Mr. Willis, whom he describes 
 in his latest production as follows : " It does 
 not take or require him to think, when engaged 
 in his literary avocations. Ideas crowd so fast 
 upon him, his perception of the best points in 
 his subjects is so ready, that the moment he 
 takes his pen in hand, he starts off at a railroad 
 rate, and never slackens his pace until he be- 
 comes physically exhausted. 
 
125 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 MEMOIRS OP LETITIA ELIZABETH LANDON (l. E. L.). 
 
 Os.E bright summer day, in the year 1836, I 
 accepted an invitation to join a party of artists 
 and literary people, who were going to take a 
 sail on the Thames to Richmond. With sun- 
 light around us, and music from an accompa- 
 nying boat, freighted with creature-comforts 
 and a band hired for the day, we sped gaily 
 along, and in due time reached the place of de- 
 barkation a sloping bank which led to a 
 lovely meadow, where we proposed, with 
 chicken, champagne, chat and cigars, to leave 
 dull earth behind us, for the day at last. 
 
 We were a merry and a happy party. 
 There was Laman Blanchard, with his expres- 
 sive black eyes, amiable face, and gay sparkling 
 rattle. Serle, the, late editor of the " Sun"* 
 newspaper, whose death occurred but a few 
 weeks since a man of most versatile talents, 
 and far and away the best mimic Charles 
 Matthews only excepted I ever met with ; 
 
126 lions; living and dead. 
 
 William Maginn, sparkling and satirical ' 
 learned, and liquor-loving ; Miss Pickering, 
 graceful and unaffected, and many others which 
 it is not necessary here to mention. Of these, 
 alas ! how many have since departed from 
 
 " Sunshine to the sunless land." 
 
 Blanchard, Maginn, Miss Pickering, Serle 
 these I have mentioned are no more but 
 their memories are fragrant. Poor Laman 
 Blanchard perished by his own hand ; Maginn 
 passed away in his prime, with a constitution 
 prematurely broken up by excess ; Miss Pick- 
 ering killed herself by hard work and excite- 
 ment ; and Serle died worn out by the 
 drudgery of daily Journalism. 
 
 From the manner in which Maginn rattled 
 away at this party of ours, one might have 
 supposed that Care and the " Doctor"" were ut- 
 ter strangers to each other. Maginn never 
 was in finer feather, though at that very time, 
 as 1 afterwards learned, his pecuniary embar- 
 rassments were almost overwhelming. But, 
 trouble " out of sight" was with him " out of 
 mind." He never suffered his domestic disa- 
 greeables to damp his festive moments. 
 
 Talkinfj of Maginn reminds me of an anec- 
 dote respecting him, which I do not think has 
 
LETITIA ELIZABKTH I.ANDON. 127 
 
 ever before been published. It illustrates his 
 careless habits and his utter recklessness, to a 
 painful extent. His daughter being about to 
 get married, his pride suggested that ho ought 
 to make her some present on her starting in 
 the world, and accordingly he resolved to 
 abandon the bottle for a time, apply himself to 
 hard work, and with the proceeds furnish a 
 house for the young people. To this good 
 resolution he adhered ; and with so much good 
 result, that in an incredible short time ho had 
 aimed a very handsome sum, the whole of 
 which he applied to the purpose mentioned. 
 
 A week before the young couple were to 
 take possession of their new establishment, 
 Mr. Maginn, one evening, went to the house, 
 (the bride and bridegroom were absent on 
 their wedding tour,) for the purpose of seeing 
 the various rooms decked with the furniture 
 he had, with so much toil, procured. The 
 sight greatly satisfied him, and after he had 
 gone through the various apartments, he sat 
 down upon a sofa, in the drawing-room, per- 
 fectly happy in the consciousness that he had 
 been enabled to do so much for his daughter. 
 
 '' This head and this hand did it all T he 
 said, with an excusable pride to the woman 
 who remained in charge of the premises ; and 
 again he strolled well pleased through the rooms. 
 
128 lions; living and dead. 
 
 " And now, Mrs. ," he remarked, 
 
 " You shall drink the health of the happy 
 couple. Ill join you get half a pint of gin 
 and some glasses." 
 
 The woman, nothing loth, performed her 
 
 errand, the healths were drmik again and again 
 
 more liquor was fetched, and that night the 
 
 " Doctor," overcome by the potations, slept on 
 
 the carpet. The next morning a " refresher" 
 
 was of course required a trifling fillip to the 
 
 nervous system. Every one who knew Maginn 
 
 may easily guess what followed. He did not 
 
 quit the house that day ^nor the next nor for 
 
 a week, and when he left it he had sold and 
 
 pawned nearly all the furniture to pay for the 
 
 expensive parties he had given in honour of his 
 
 daughter's marriage. 
 
 ***** 
 
 To return to our party Maginn had heen 
 lamenting that one person who had been ex- 
 pected to join it had failed to come ; who it 
 was I do not know then, for no name but that 
 of " Letty" was mentioned by him ; however, 
 about four in the afternoon, whil&t we were 
 taking it easy on the grass, we observed a gen- 
 tleman and lady approaching us, and on their 
 coming nearer, Maginn jumped up, exclaim- 
 ing, " Here comes the little jade," and set of? 
 to meet the new arrivals. 
 
LF.TITIA ELIZABETH LANDON. 129 
 
 The gentleman was tall, slim, dressed in 
 black, and somewhat clerical in appearance, 
 ]eanin(v on his arm was a light, girlish figure 
 who came tripping along, her clear voice and 
 merry laugh ringing in the summer air like 
 music. The lady was clad in simple white, 
 and a transparent, gauzy bonnet of the same 
 colour covered her head, from which, in grace- 
 fully careless ringlets floated dark brown curls. 
 On reaching us she sat merely down on the 
 grass, flinging her bonnet aside, and giv^ing 
 me a fair chance of observing her features, 
 which, although not regular, were very plea- 
 sant and arch in their expression. Her fore- 
 head was not high, but it was broad and well 
 developed ; the eyes appeared calm and soft, 
 and the small mouth appeared to change per- 
 petually its expression. Her smile was very 
 sweet. I said her figure was slight, it was also 
 symmetrical, and her hands and feet, so far as 
 I could judge of the latter, were faultlessly 
 small. In fact, she seemed to be one of those 
 joyous unaflTected creatures who have not a care 
 in the world, and whom you could not help 
 loving. This v^as Miss Landon, author of the 
 improvisatorial " Romance and Reality," and a 
 host of other works, and the gentleman who 
 accompanied her was her father. 
 
 1 was surprised when I heard her name. 
 F 2 
 
130 lions; living and dead. 
 
 What ! could that be the authoress who wrote 
 such impassionate and mournful poetry ? I had 
 imagined L.E.L. to be like Mrs. Gummidge, a 
 poor " lorn lone ereetur," who had hung her 
 harp on the willow^s. Mr. Blanchard says of 
 her " Nobody who mi^ht happen to see her 
 for the first time enjoying the quiet little dance, 
 of which she was fond, or the snug corner of 
 the room where the little lively discussion, 
 which she liked better, was going on, could 
 possibly have traced in her one feature of the 
 sentimentalist which popular error reported her 
 to be. The listener might only hear her run- 
 ning on from subject to subject, and lighting* 
 up each with a wit never ill-natured, and often 
 brilliant ; scattering quotations as thick as hail, 
 opinions as wild as the winds, defying fair 
 argument to keep pace with her, and fairly 
 talking herself out of breath. He would most 
 probably hear from her lips many a pointed and 
 sparkling aphorism, the wittiest thing of the 
 night, let who would be around her ; he would 
 be surprised, pleased, but his heroine of song, 
 as painted by anticipation, he would be enable 
 to discover. He would see her looking younger 
 than she really was ; and, perhaps, struck by 
 her animated air, her expressive face, her slight 
 but elegant figure, his expressions would at 
 once find utterance in the exclamations which 
 
LETITIA ti.IZABETH LANDON. 131 
 
 esc:ped from the lips of the Ettrick Shepherd, 
 oil bein^ presented to her whose romantic fancies 
 had often charmed him in liis wild mountains 
 " I lech ; but I didna' think ye had been sae 
 bonnie/^ 
 
 In the course of that afternoon, and during 
 the ride home, a ride I shall never forget, with 
 its music and moonlight accompaniments, I 
 had the pleasure of conversing frequently with 
 Miss Landon. On my happening casually to 
 mention that Mrs. Newton, the sister of Chat- 
 tertoii, was my mother's schoolmistress, she 
 expressed herself strongly in favour of that re- 
 markable genius, who she ranked next to Shake- 
 spere. Of Walpole's conduct towards him she 
 spoke indignantly, as well she might. 
 
 " I once wrote some verses,*" she said, " to 
 the memory of the Boy of Bristol, but they 
 were never published." I expressed a desire 
 to see them, and some time afterwards she gave 
 me a copy of them in her own handwriting. 
 The autograph I left, by accident, with others, 
 in the hands of an old bookseller of Bristol, 
 who swindled me out of them, and who I 
 heard, not long ago, without much regret, 
 had drowned himself. I wish he had returned 
 me my property before he tried the depths of 
 the Avon, it might have been all the better for 
 him too. 
 
132 lions; living and dead. 
 
 Once I on a subsequent occasion had the 
 pleasure and privilege of seeing Miss Landon 
 at her residence in Hans Place, Sloane Street. 
 It was her custom occasionally to give a 
 quiet party to a few literary friends, and 
 I was, after the pic-nic affair alluded to, 
 honoured with a general invitation for the 
 last Thursday evening in every month. 
 
 The house in which she resided was itself 
 remarkable, and deserves some notice. It is 
 a quiet unpretending domicile of two stories, 
 surmounted by a pair of attics, one of which 
 latter has been sanctified by the presence of 
 genius not the only garret, by a good many, 
 in which brain work has been done. It was 
 numbered twenty-two in the row or place, and 
 it is now the residence of Mrs. S. C. Hall, the 
 last of a long line of literary ladies who have 
 dwelt there. 
 
 Among these inmates may be enumerated 
 Lady Caroline Lamb (the lanthe of Lord 
 Byron), the Countess St. Quentin, Miss Mit- 
 ford, Lady Bulwer Lytton, and Miss Roberts. 
 Perhaps in the wide sphere of the British me- 
 tropolis no house can be named from which so 
 much talent has emanated . 
 
 There are several circumstances which give 
 a general interest to Hans Place. Here it 
 was that Miss Landon was horn, on the 14th 
 
LKTITIA ELiZAiJETH LANDON. 133 
 
 of August, 1802, in tho house now No. 25, 
 and it is remarkable that tho ^reater portion of 
 L.E.L "a existence was passed on the spot where 
 she was born. From Hans Place and its 
 nei;hbourhood she was seldom absent, and 
 then not for any great length of time ; until 
 within a year or two of her death she had there 
 found a home not indeed in the house of her 
 birth, but close by. Taken occasionally during 
 the earlier years of childhood into the country, 
 it was to Hans Place that she returned. Here 
 some of her school-time was passed. When 
 lier parents removed, she yet clung to the old 
 spot, and, as her own mistress, chose the same 
 scene for her residence, when one series of in- 
 mates quitted it, she still resided there with 
 their successors, returning continually, after 
 every wandering, ''like a blackbird to her 
 uest." 
 
 Tlie partiality of Miss Landon for London 
 was extraordinary, in this respect she resembled 
 Dr. Johnson and Charles Lamb. In 183i 
 Miss Landon wrote ominously wrote, to a 
 literary friend, " When I have the good or ill 
 luck (I rather lean to the latter opinion), of 
 being married, I shall certainly insist on the 
 wed'ding excursion not extending much beyond 
 Hyde Park Corner. Little did she then 
 dream that her wedding excursion would be to 
 
134 LIONS ; LIVING AND DEAD. 
 
 Cape Coast Castle. AVhen in her sixth year 
 (1808) L.E.L. was sent to school at No. 22, 
 Hans Place. The school was then kept hy 
 Miss Rowden, who in 1801 had published a 
 " Po3tical Introduction to the study of Botany/' 
 and in 1810 a poem entitled " The Pleasures 
 of Friendship." Miss Rowden married, and 
 in the course of events became the' Countess 
 of St. Quentin, went to France and died there. 
 
 In the house where she had been educated. 
 Miss Landon afterwards resided for many years 
 as a boarder with the Misses Lance, who suc- 
 ceeded Miss Rowden in conducting a school 
 there. " It seems," observes the biographer of 
 L.E.L. "to have been appropriated to such 
 purposes from the time it was built, nor was 
 L.E.L. the first who drank at the 'well of 
 English,' within its walls. Miss Mitford, we 
 believe, was educated there, and Lady Caroline 
 Lamb was an inmate for a time. 
 
 This Lady Caroline Lamb, was the wife of 
 the late Viscount Melbourne to whom she was 
 married in 1805. She published three novels, 
 " Glenarvon,"" Graham Hamilton,'' and "Ada 
 Reis." Miss Mitford has so. minutely detailed 
 her own history while a resident at 21, Hans 
 Place, and her literary productions are so 
 numerous that we need not further advert to 
 
LETITIA ELIZABETH LANDON. 135 
 
 it now, let us follow, rather, tlie course of 
 Miss Landon. 
 
 It was the remark of L E.L. herself, that 
 "a history of how and where works of iniat;i- 
 natioa have been produced, could often be moro 
 extraordinary than the works themselves." 
 *' Her own case," observes a female friend 
 the present occupier of the house, " is in some 
 de^^ree illustrative of perfect independence of 
 mind over all external circumstances?" Per- 
 haps to the L.E.L. of whom so many nonsen- 
 sical things have been said, as that she could 
 write with a crystal pen, dipped in dew, upon 
 silver paper, and use for pounce the dust of a 
 butterfly's wing, a dilletante of literature would 
 assign for the scene of her authorship a fairy- 
 like boudoir with rose-coloured and silver hanir- 
 inij'S fitted with all the luxuries of a fastidious 
 taste. How did the reality agree with this 
 fancy sketch ? Miss Landon's drawing room, 
 indeed, was prettily furnished, but it was her 
 invariable habit to write in her bedroom. I see 
 it now, that homely-looking, almost uncom- 
 fortable room fronting the street, and barely 
 furnished with a simple white bed, at the foot 
 of which was a small, old oblong shaped sort of 
 dressing table quite covered with a common 
 worn writing desk, heaped with papers, while 
 some strewed the ground, the table being too 
 
136 lions; living and dead. 
 
 small for aught beside the desk ; a little high- 
 bodied cane chair which gave you any idea 
 rather than that of comfort. A few books 
 scattered about completed the author's para- 
 phernalia." 
 
 In this attic did the muse of L.E.L. 
 dream of and describe, music, moonlight and 
 roses, and apostrophine loves, memories, hopes 
 and fears With how much ultimate appe- 
 tite for invention or sympathy may be judged 
 from her declaration that, " there is one con- 
 clusion at which I have arrived, that a horse 
 in a mill has an easier life than an author; I 
 am fairly fagged out of my life." 
 
 Miss Roberts, who had resided in the same 
 house with Miss Landon, prefixed a brief 
 memoir to a collection of poems by that 
 lamented lady, which appeared shortly after 
 her death, using as a motto her own mournful 
 lines 
 
 ** Alas ! hope is not prophecy we dream, 
 But rarely does the glad fulfilment come ; 
 We leave our land and we return no more," 
 
 And within less than twenty months from 
 the selection of these lines, they became appli- 
 cable to her who had quoted them. 
 
 Emma Roberts accompanied her sister, Mrs. 
 M'Naughton, to India, where they resided un- 
 
LETITIA ELI/AUETil l.ANDON. 137 
 
 til her sister's death. Upon that event Miss 
 lloberts returned to England, and employed her 
 pen assiduously and advantaojeously in illus- 
 trating the condition of our Eastern dominions. 
 She returned to India and died at Poonah, on 
 September 17th, 1840. 
 
 Though considerably the elder, she was one 
 of the early friends of Miss Landon, having for 
 several years previous boarded with the Misses 
 Lance, in Hans place. 
 
 These were happy days, and little boded the 
 premature and melancholy fate which awaited 
 them in foreign climes. " We believe," says 
 Mr. Jerdan, *' that it was the example of the 
 literary success of Miss Landon, which stimu- 
 lated Miss Roberts to try her powers as an 
 author, and we remember having the gratifica- 
 tion to assist her in launching her first essay 
 an historical production, which reflected high 
 credit on her talents, and at once established 
 her in a fair position in the ranks of literature. 
 Since then she has been one of the most pro- 
 lific of our female writers, and given to the 
 world a number of works of interest and value. 
 The expedition to India in which she unfortu- 
 nately perished, was undertaken with compre- 
 hensive views towards the further illustration 
 of the East, and portions of her descriptions 
 
188 LIOXS ; LIVING AND DEAD. 
 
 have appeared as she journeyed to her destina- 
 tion, in periodicals devoted to Asiatic pursuits." 
 The influence of Miss Landon's popularity 
 on the mind of Miss Roberts very probably 
 caused that lady to acquire similar celebrity. 
 Indeed, so imitative are the impulses of the 
 human mind, that it may ftiirly be questioned 
 if Miss Landon would ever have struck her 
 lyre had she not been in the presence of Miss 
 Mitford's and Miss Rowden's " fame, and felt 
 its influence." Miss Mitford has chronicled so 
 minutely all the sayings and doings of her 
 school days in Hans Place, (H.P. as she mys- 
 teriously writes it,) that she admits us at once 
 behind the scenes. She describes herself as 
 being sent there a petted child of ten years old, 
 born and bred in the country, and as shy as a 
 hare. The schoolmistress, a Mrs. S , sel- 
 dom came near us. Her post was to sit all 
 day nicely dressed, in a nicely furnished draw- 
 ing-room, receiving mammas, aunts, and grand- 
 mammas, answering questions, and administer- 
 ingas much praise as she conscientiouslycould 
 perhaps a little more. In the school-room she 
 ruled like other rulers, by ministers and dele- 
 gates, of whom the French Teacher was the 
 principal. This French Teacher, the daughter 
 of an Emigre of distinction, upon the short 
 Peace of Amiens, left to join her parents in 
 
LKTITIA ELIZADETH LANDON. i 3i) 
 
 their attempt to recover their property, in 
 which they succeeded. Her successor is ad- 
 inirahly sketched by Miss Mitford, as well as 
 the mutual antipathy which existed between 
 the French and English teachers, in whom we 
 at once recognise Miss Rowden. 
 
 Never were two better haters. Their rela- 
 tive situations, probably, had something to do 
 with it, and yet it was wonderful that two 
 such excellent persons should so thoroughly 
 detest each other. Miss ll.'s aversion was of 
 the cool, phlegmatic, contemptuous, provoking 
 sort ; she kept aloof and said nothing. Ma- 
 damc's was acute, fiery, and loquacious. She 
 not only hated Miss R., but hated for her sake 
 knowledge and literature and wit, and above 
 all, poetry, which she denounced as fatal and 
 contagious as the plague. Miss Mitford's lite- 
 rary and dramatic tastes seemed to have been 
 acquired from Miss Rowden, whom she de- 
 scribed as " one of the most charming w^omen 
 that she had ev^er known." 
 
 The pretty vfoviigraziosa^ by which Napoleon 
 loved to describe Josephine, seemed made for 
 her. She was full of a delicate grace of mind 
 and person ; her little elegant figure, and her 
 fair mild face, lighted up so brilliantly by her 
 large hazel eyes, corresponded with the soft 
 gentle manners, which were so often awakened 
 
] 40 LIONS ; LIVING AND DEAD. 
 
 into a delightful playfulness, or an enthusiasm 
 more charming still, by the impulse of her 
 quick and charming spirit. To be sure she 
 had a slight touch of distraction about her 
 (distraction, French, not distraction, English) 
 an interesting absence of mind. She united 
 in her own person all the sins of forgetfulness 
 of all the young ladies ; mislaid her handker- 
 chief, her shawl, her gloves, her work, her 
 music, her drawing, her scissors, her keys ; 
 could ask for a book when she held it in her 
 hand, and set a whole class hunting for her 
 thimble, when the said thimble was quietly 
 perched on her finger. Oh ! with what a pity- 
 ing scorn the exact French woman used to look 
 down upon such an incorrigible scatterbrain 
 but she was a poetess, as madame said, and 
 what could you expect better ? 
 
 Such was Miss Landon's schoolmistress, and 
 under this lady's especial instruction did Miss 
 Mitford pass the years 1812-13 and 14; together 
 they read " chiefly poetry," and " besides these 
 readings," says Miss Mitford, " Miss R. com- 
 pensated in another way for my unwilling appli- 
 cation. She took me often to the theatre, 
 whether as an extra branch of education, or 
 because she was herself in the height of a dra- 
 matic fever, it would be invidious to inquire. 
 The effect may easily be foreseen, my enthu- 
 
LETITIA ELIZABETH LANDON. 141 
 
 siasm soon equalled her own, we began to read 
 Shakspere, and did nothing else " 
 
 From this long digression, I must crave the 
 indulgence of the reader, but the reminiscences 
 of the house, 22, Hans Place, were, I imagined, 
 too interesting to be neglected in any notice of 
 Miss Landon. 
 
 These fortnightly conversationes of L.E.L. 
 were among the most delightful things of their 
 kind. In such mixed assemblages she appeared 
 to great advantage ; and although a keen ob- 
 server may have at times perceived that she 
 made an effort to be gay, she wore the mask 
 which often concealed her secret sorrow so well 
 that few believed her other than the gay, vola- 
 tile creature she appeared to be. Perhaps 
 there never was a literary lady, especially one 
 so universally petted and praised, who displayed 
 so little of the outward and visible signs of 
 author craft. No one would, when listening 
 to her badinage^ imagine her to be the utterer 
 of those splendid and philosophic aphorisms 
 with which many of her prose works abound ; 
 still less would they have dreamed that beneath 
 that surface of glitter and sunshine there ran 
 a cold, dark current, which poisoned the very 
 springs of life. ^ 
 
 It is sad to know that one so gifted and so 
 good should have been subjected to attacks 
 
142 lions; living and deal*. 
 
 from the unscrupulous and calumnious. Almost 
 from the earliest period of her popularity she 
 was the target at which the shafts of envy and 
 malice were diregted. For years these were a 
 source of terrible anguish to her, and though 
 her firm and fast and true friends never for a 
 moment believed in the false reports respecting 
 her, they preyed on her very vitals. One en- 
 gagement of marriage was marred and put an 
 end to by them, and it is not improbable that 
 the wretched connection into which she after- 
 wards plunged, was brought about by the in- 
 sinuations of her enemies. 
 
 The fact of her marriage came on the public 
 by surprise. That L.E.L. had changed to 
 Mrs. Maclean was at first scarcely credited, 
 and when it was announced that the brilliant 
 and gifted " Improvisatrice" was about to be 
 borne away to a dull grim castle on the pesti- 
 lential coast of Africa to the white man's 
 grave a burst of wonder and regret was uni- 
 v^ersal. She departed, and for a time intelli- 
 gence came of her at intervals. She was said 
 to be happy, and engaged in literary pursuits, 
 and her admirers were eagerly looking for some 
 new productions of her genius, when the 
 astounding news of her death paralysed the 
 literary community. 
 
 The mystery with which the fatal event was 
 
LETITIA ELIZABETH LANDON. 143 
 
 enveloped greatly added to the effect produced 
 by it,and it was unhesitatingly declared by 
 many of her friends, that she had been poisoned 
 by one of her husband's former favourites ; for 
 it was asserted that he had quite a sable sera- 
 glio at Cape. Coast Castle, prior to his marriage. 
 There were not wanting some who gave utter- 
 ance to still darker suspicions. It is, however, 
 hoped by her friends that the manner of her 
 death was accidental ; but on the other hand, 
 there is too much reason, from previous occur- 
 rences, to fear that she herself, with too daring 
 liand, unstrung her lyre, and terminated her 
 latterly clouded career. 
 
 It is stated by the surgeon who was called 
 in, that he found her dead, and in her hand 
 an empty bottle, marked " Hydrogenic acid." 
 In her novel of " Ethel Churchill," it will be 
 remembered that she represents the Countess 
 of Marchmont as pressing from laurel leaves 
 this very poison, and secretly keeping it for the 
 purpose of self-destruction. This evidences her 
 knowledge of the poison and its effect. Added 
 to this, may be mentioned another fact, which 
 is, to our mind, conclusive on the point. Dur- 
 ing the period when Miss Landon was suffer- 
 ing from the atrocious calumnies to which we 
 have referred, .she was visited one day by Miss 
 Roberts, who found her in a state of dreadful 
 
144 LIONS ; LIVING AND DEAD. 
 
 excitement. *' Have those horrible reports got 
 into the papers?' she inquired, frantically. 
 Miss Roberts told her not so. She then re- 
 marked, " If they do, I am resolved here is 
 my remedy," taking from a drawer a phial of 
 prussic acid. 
 
 After all, she may have died by accident, 
 through taking an over-dose of the acid. If so, 
 she would not have been the first who so 
 perished. 
 
 The poetess was buried in the court-yard of 
 Cape Coast Castle a dreary locality. On 
 three sides it is surrounded by the sea. No- 
 thing but the mournful murmuring of the deep, 
 the measured tread of the sentinels, or the 
 blasts of military music are heard around her 
 place of dreamless slumber. 
 
 Some six years since, I met casually Mr. 
 Maclean in the city of Philadelphia, where he 
 stopped during a tour through the United 
 States. I cannot say that his appearance fa- 
 vourably impressed me. He was, indeed, just 
 the very opposite of the person who I should 
 have supposed Miss Landon would have chosen 
 for a husband. But many a marriage is a 
 mystery, and dreams are not the only things 
 that go by contraries. I do not think Mr. 
 Maclean could have properly appreciated his 
 wife, for he sold, I hear, a number of her manu- 
 
LETITIA ELIZABETH LANDO.V. 145 
 
 scripts after her death. The affection which 
 could thus descend to a peddling of such pre- 
 cious memorials of one so nearly allied, could 
 not, methinks, have been great. 
 
 But de mortius^ &c.^ he too is dead, and, but 
 for his connection with L.E.L., forgotten. 
 
 Leman Blanchard wrote a memoir of Miss 
 Landon, and m it did all in his power to show 
 that L.E.L. did not commit suicide. His 
 amiable oiideavours, however, failed to convince 
 most people. Alas ! that it should be recorded 
 that he himself, not long after, terminated his 
 existence, adding another to the list of literary 
 suicides. Of these there are doubtless more 
 than are ever heard of. Let us in all charity 
 hope that such, induced by suffering and mad- 
 ness to cut the thread of existence, find more 
 mercy with their Maker than their fellow- 
 mortals are too often disposed to show. 
 
 A monument to the memory of Miss Landon 
 was placed in Brompton Church by some of her 
 friends. Over her grave is a slab of marble, on 
 which is a Latin inscription, from the pen of 
 her husband. 
 
146 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 THE WEAVER POET OF INVERURY RECOLLEC- 
 TIONS t)F WILLIAM THOM. 
 
 Occasionally, and at uncertain intervals, the 
 literary world is surprised and startled by the 
 announcement, that in some unexpected and 
 obscure quarter of the hemisphere of verse, a 
 new light has appeared. 
 
 ** Then they feel like some watcher of the skies. 
 When a new planet swims into his ken." 
 
 The darker the clouds which have hitherto 
 concealed the son or daughter of song, the more 
 the wonder grows. Thus, when from an out 
 of the way part of Scotland, the genius of Burns 
 first blazed forth, all the world was amazed. 
 Thus, when, from an obscure workshop in the 
 City Road, London, the farmer's boy sung his 
 harmonious numbers, the poet and the learned 
 paused to listen. Thus, when, from the wolds 
 of Northamptonshire, John Clare warbled his 
 native wood notes wild, titled men and women 
 
WILLIAM THOM. 147 
 
 stooped to applaud and reward. And thus, 
 too, among many other such instances, when 
 from the weaving-room of an artizan of Inve- 
 rury was heard strains of pure poetry, the critics 
 and the public lauded to the skies the songs of 
 William Thom, the half starved weaver. 
 
 All experience has proved that these humble 
 birds of song have not been permanently bene- 
 fited by their removal, by injudicious admirers, 
 from their native haunts to gilded cages. The 
 transition has generally caused their ruin. It 
 was so to a certain extent in Burns' case, for 
 it made him dissatisfied with his lowly station. 
 The applause of admiring readers, and the 
 golden harvest of success, drove Clare mad, and 
 be now strings incoherent verses in a lunatic 
 asylum. Thom, feted and feasted in London, 
 lost his balance, and lived almost to curse the 
 reputation which led to his fame. Let people 
 say v/hat they may about the perils of poverty, 
 we firmly believe that to most men sudden pros- 
 perity is a far more dangerous thing. Inju- 
 dicious patrons too frequently lift their objects 
 from the gloom of poverty to plunge them into 
 the vortex of madness and disappointment. It 
 too often treats genius as a toy which yields 
 amusement for a time, but when the fine gold 
 becomes a little dimmed by excesses of their 
 own teaching, or by mere familiarity of contact. 
 
14S LIONS ; LIVING AND DEAD. 
 
 it is flung aside, neglected, and despised. Bet- 
 ter, far better, would it be to allow talent to 
 lie utterly neglected, than drag it from its ob- 
 scurity, imbue with false hopes, and then let it 
 feel that the admiration of the million is but 
 *' a mockery, a delusion, and a snare/' As well 
 talk of spring to the trampled flower of light 
 to the fallen star of glory to those who lie 
 heaped on the field of carnage, as to mock the 
 poor poet with hopes of fame and plenty whilst 
 giving him a glimpse of splendour which unfits 
 him for steady occupation, and to encourage 
 him to trust to the power of his genius for the 
 supply of his daily bread, without continuing 
 to him that helping hand which he fondly 
 hoped would lead him on to fortune and to 
 fame. 
 
 Why I have thus introduced my sketch of the 
 late William Thom, will be evident when the 
 reader has perused this slight memorial of a 
 man, whose greatest misfortune was paradoxical 
 as it may seem, the acquisition of so-called 
 Friends. 
 
 Thom was one of those poets who are said to 
 spring from the people; and here it may not be 
 amiss to contemplate for a moment the charac- 
 ters and careers of three of the greatest writers 
 who ever lived, and who owed their origin to 
 " the multitude." Seldom does it happen that 
 
WILLIAM THOM. 149 
 
 the close of such men's lives are in accordance 
 with the promises of their '' day springs" of 
 success and hope. Look, for instance, says an 
 able writer in the "Eclectic Review," to the cases 
 of ShaUspere, JJurns, and IJunyan *' all these 
 men were of the people," but while Shakspere 
 and Burns belon<:ed to its upper stratum, 
 Buuyan appeared among its lowest dregs, like 
 a new creation among the slush of chaos. Let 
 the stage-player the tinker and the guager 
 appear for a moment together upon our stage. 
 The first is a swarthy and Spaniard looking man, 
 with tall forehead, sharp side-Jong eyes, dark 
 hair curling over his lips and chin, and firm 
 deep cut nostril. The second has a fresh com- 
 plexion, auburn locks, round brovv, hair on his 
 upper lip after the old English fashion, and 
 sparkling glowing eyes, not the least like those of 
 a dreamer, but resembling rather the eyes of 
 *'some hot amourist," as John Wandril hath it. 
 The third has a broad low brow, palpitating 
 with thoughts and suffering ; eyes, shivering in 
 their great round orbs with emotion, like the 
 star Venus in the orange west, nostril slightly 
 curved upward, dusky skin, black masses of hair, 
 and dimpled undecisive chin and cheek. All 
 three have imagination as their leading faculty, 
 but that of the player is wide as the globe ; that 
 of the tinker is intense, almost to lunacy ; and 
 
150 lions; living ai<d dead^ 
 
 that of the guager is narrow and vivid as a 
 stream of forked lightning. All three have 
 strong intellect, but the intellect of one is capa- 
 cious, that of the other casuistic, and that of the 
 third clear. All are partially educated, but 
 Shakspere's culture is that of the society of 
 his age, Bunyan's that of solitary reading, and 
 Burns' a compound of both. All are men of 
 " one book," Shakspere's being the universe, 
 Bunyan the Bible, and Burns the ballad poetry 
 of Scotland. All are men of intensely ardent 
 temperament, which in Shakspere is subdued 
 by the width of the mind in which the furnace 
 glows, which in Bunyan becomes a purged 
 flame, but which in poor Burns bursts out of all 
 restraint into a destructive conflagration. In 
 the works of all, mater iem super at opus, the 
 genius of Shakspere flaming out of mean struc- 
 tures of farce tragi-comedy ; Bunyan's power 
 overflowing the banks of narrow controversial 
 treatises, and the great soul of Burns o'er-in- 
 forming the tenement of fugitive poem, jeuJ2 
 d'esprits, satires, and semi-scandalous ballads. 
 All had something of a religious tendency, but 
 while in Shakspere it takes a vague diffusive 
 form, and Burns never amounts to much more 
 than what he himself calls " an idiotic piety," 
 in Bunyan it becomes a deep burning principle 
 
WILLIAM THOM. 151 
 
 of thoufjlit and action, swallowing up and 
 sanctifying his native genius. 
 
 The fate of the three was curious and cha- 
 racteristic. Shakspere the sublime stage-player, 
 outliving his early self, with those mysterious 
 errors which are partially revealed in his son- 
 nets, subsided into a decent, retired, self-indul- 
 gent gentleman, like a dull, sleepy, soaking 
 evening, following a day of blended storm and 
 splendour. Burns, after many a vain attempt 
 to rally against the misfortunes and sins of his 
 life and temperament, fell down at last their 
 proud recalcitrating victim, dying and making 
 but dubious signs ; while John Bunyan, strong 
 in supernatural might, victorious over his ten- 
 dencies, having bound his very madness in 
 chains, and turned his tears and tortures into 
 the elements of hope and triumph, crossed the 
 black river, singing in concert with the shining 
 ones, and passed into eternity, perfect through 
 suffering, and resembling rather one of its own 
 native children, than a poor hardened sinner 
 from the City of Destruction. Philosophers 
 might speculate long and vainly on the causes 
 of those very different destinies. Our theory is 
 the simple Christian one : God endowed the 
 three with almost commensurate powers, but 
 one only, through patient struggle and solemn 
 search, reached the blessed hope and new life 
 
152 lions; living and dead. 
 
 of Christianity. And we come to the further 
 analysis and illustration of Bunyan's genius, 
 with the exulting thought "we are not about 
 to speak of a ray which has wandered, or even 
 of a magnificent world unfinished, unnamed, 
 unbaptized of God, but of a star once astray, 
 but which returned and received a place in 
 the great galaxy of the worshipping and holy 
 heavens. 
 
 It was in the city of Boston, U. S., that I 
 first became acquainted with the name of Wil- 
 liam Thorn. Happening to be in the shop of 
 a publisher there, my opinion was asked as to 
 the advisability of publishing an American 
 edition of his narrative and poems. The poet 
 was then in the very height of his popularity 
 in Enojland. The thrillin": narrative of his 
 sufferings prefixed to the poems, and the plain- 
 tive variety of many of the latter, had tickled 
 the poetic ear. His portrait had been engraved 
 in the " Illustrated London News," and curi- 
 osity hunters had invited the inspired weaver 
 to dine off plate and porcelain him who but a 
 few months before had been repulsed from many 
 a door, and had not where to lay his own head 
 or that of his dying child. Like the car attached 
 to the balloon he was dragged upwards to a 
 dizzy height we shall see, by-and-bye, how 
 fearful was his descent. I saw at once that 
 
WILLIAM THOM. 153 
 
 the Scotticisms would effectually prevent tho 
 popularity of the book in the United States, 
 but advised the reprint of the narrative which 
 was a simple story of a poor poet's adventures, 
 with the ])roviso that some remuneration for 
 the American copyright should be made to 
 Thorn. The advice, however, was not taken, 
 and one of the most touching and terrible chap- 
 ters of life ever written is as yet unknown in 
 the Western World. 
 
 Some twelve months after this, in the year 
 1S45, I returned to England, and it so happen- 
 ed that one evening, my wife "on household 
 cares intent," chanced to observe that some 
 kind of linen was required I forget what ; but 
 no matter. A literary friend was comfortably 
 smoking his cigar by my fire-side, at the mo- 
 ment, and quietly removing the weed from his 
 lips, he said, " Why don't you give Thom an 
 order he has a little family, and will be glad 
 
 of it ?" "' Thom," asked Mrs. , who is he, 
 
 where is his shop V 
 
 " I mean Inverury Thom," explained P . 
 
 And then, I learned that William Thom 
 had been enabled, by the proceeds arising from 
 the sale of his poems, and from other funds, 
 to purchase a loom, and that he was then living 
 and weaving at his residence, in Charlotte Ter- 
 race, 'Pen ton ville. Of course I was delighted 
 G 2 
 
154 lions; living and dead. 
 
 to have the opportunity of encouraging a bro- 
 ther of the pen, and I was no less pleased to 
 have an opportunity of an introduction to one, 
 whose story had, when thousands of miles away, 
 so pleased and interested me. 
 
 The order given, was not very promptly exe- 
 cuted. I think about two months elapsed be- 
 fore the articles were sent they might have 
 been got ready in a week ; but poets are pro- 
 verbially poor men of business, and Thorn, I 
 afterwards found was no exception to the almost 
 general rule. With the money for the products 
 of his loom, I sent him a copy of a volume of 
 mine a biography and a few days afterward 
 received from him an invitation to spend the 
 following Saturday evening at his house. 
 
 The " gloaming'' had set in when I climbed 
 Pentonville Hill, and turned into the Highbury 
 road. Passing " White Conduit House," that 
 paradise of Cockneydom, I soon arrived at 
 Charlotte Terrace, but having forgotten the 
 number I found some difficulty in discovering 
 the precise domicile in which the weaver-verse- 
 maker resided. The green grocer at the corner, 
 that usually unfailing resource for persons in 
 my situation failed me, for no one there knew 
 any one in the neighbourhood of the name of 
 Thorn, so I tried a gin shop and succeeded im- 
 mediately. 
 
WILLIAM TUOM. 155 
 
 *' It's number twenty-two, sir," said the pot- 
 boy coming' forward. " Aint it a little Scotch 
 shop as you bo looking for V 
 
 I answered in the affirmative. 
 
 " I servo bis supper and dinner beer, and a 
 rum cove he is/' added the pot-boy, and he ad- 
 ded with a prin ; " blest if he isn't a brick, 
 hout and bout ! They've had nine pots and 
 three half pints of short this afternoon can't 
 he make the browns fly oh ! no ;" and with a 
 knowing application of his finger to his nose, 
 the purveyor of porter vanished. 
 
 I soon got to No, 22. It was a plain two 
 story dwelling on the door was a neat brass 
 plate, with the name, W. Thorn, engraved 
 thereon. The window of the front parlour was 
 open, and as I passed it, there issued into the 
 street, a reekin'g odour of tobacco, blent with 
 fumes of beer and gin. There seemed to be a 
 sort of jollification going on inside, for I could 
 distinguish several voices, and among them one 
 which had a broad Scotch accent. The door 
 was opened to my summons by a woman with 
 rather loose undress, with a baby in her arms. 
 Scarcely had I enquired of her whether Mr. 
 Thorn was at home, when a voice from with- 
 in, exclaimed " Coom in, coom in, " and al- 
 most at the same moment, a young lad came 
 forward, and led me into the parlour. As yet, 
 
loB LIONS ; LIVING AND DEAD. 
 
 candles were not lighted, so that in the dusk I 
 could merely discern that there were five or 
 six persons present, and that a table was pretty 
 well loaded with jugs, pewter-pots, glasses, and 
 pipes. Not being a user of the Nicotian "weed," 
 the fumes which floated visibly in the little 
 room, were not the most agreeable of stimu- 
 lants, but I managed to get used to them, and 
 then I joined the circle around the festive 
 board. 
 
 As soon as I entered the room, through the 
 blue haze, 1 perceived a form rise to welcome 
 me, but as to scanning features, that was, just 
 then, impossible. All I could perceive was a 
 stout figure, short in stature, from whence 
 came a voice, rugged and somewhat harsh, but 
 cordial, expressing gratification at my visit, 
 and 1 felt a tight grip of my hand by the one 
 which was held out to me. " Glad to see you. 
 
 Mr. ; glad to see you. Sit down, sir. 
 
 Here, Wullie, bring a chair ; and Jean," (he 
 addressed thus the female who had admitted 
 me,) send for another pint of gin." I inter- 
 posed and begged that none might be got on 
 my account, but it was of no avail, A younger 
 boy was forthwith despatched, and presently 
 re-appeared with the liquor. 
 
 Jean presently brought lights, and then I 
 was enabled to see the Poet of Inverury. As 
 
WILLIAM IIIOM. l.")? 
 
 ho sat in his chair ho appeared a tall, hurly 
 man. His head and faco were strikin<(, over 
 his high foreliead, which was ploughed deep 
 with furrows, more, as it seouied to nie, by 
 thought and trouble than by years, and freckled 
 all over, was tossed an abundance of light hair, 
 which at one time appeared to have been sandy. 
 11 is eyes were large and gray, with an earnest 
 expression when in repose, but sparkling and 
 clowing when he was excited ; there was a 
 shrewdness too about their angles, not uncom- 
 mon in " cannie Scotsmen.'' His nose was 
 large, prominent, and rather roughly carved. 
 As for the mouth, though its upper lip did not 
 resemble Cupid's bow, it yet had an attraction 
 all its own. It was large, but very charac- 
 teristic ; and in its corners lurked a spirit of 
 humour, which a happy repartee, or good story, 
 invariably called forth. The prevailing ex- 
 pression of the face, however, was that of sad- 
 ness ; for when the features were in repose, the 
 mouth was drawn downwards, and a sorrowful 
 cloud appeared to darken his grey eyes. No 
 wonder ; for such clouds had, during the poet's 
 eventful career, been so frequent in their visits 
 as almost to have left settled gloom behind 
 them. 
 
 The head, I have thus attempted to describe, 
 was attached to a broad, capacious chest by a 
 
158 lions; living and dead. 
 
 short neck. Seldom have I seen a more expan- 
 sive thorax. It was the torso of a Vulcan ; 
 nor did the large, muscular arms and hands 
 fail to deepen the impression made by it. 
 Doubtless the constant work of the loom had 
 caused this developement of the muscles of the 
 chest and upper extremities ; just as the 
 muscles of a blacksmith's arm are increased in 
 bulk and strength by vigorous attacks on the 
 anvil. My impression for some time was that 
 Thom was a stalwart son of Scotia, but how 
 was I surprised when I saw him on his legs. 
 
 For something or other he rose ^and then 
 the giant dwindled amazingly. The upper 
 part of his figure, which might have suited a six- 
 foot dragoon, was connected with a pair of 
 short legs, so short that they were almost 
 dwarfish ; to increase this defect, one of the 
 feet was distorted, and the leg considerably 
 shortened in consequence of an accident in early 
 youth. To walk, and that with difficulty, 
 Thom was obliged to use a short stick, so that 
 what with stooping consequent on his neces- 
 sity, and the " short measure allotted to the 
 lower limbs, the weaver looked, spite of his big 
 chest, a little man. 
 
 A similar conformation in the frame work of 
 a much more fortunate and popular poet struck 
 me some years since. I was one day sitting 
 
WILLIAM TIIOM. 159 
 
 besido Thomas Mooro, bo bad a long body 
 and sbort legs, so tbat sitting, bo appeared a 
 tallisb personage, but wben be got on bis legs, 
 be scarcely seemed to rise at all, and Tbomas 
 Moore at once indicated bis claim to tbo title 
 of ^'Tbomas Little." 
 
 Tbom, at tbis time was in the very bey-day 
 of his prosperity, and his dress betokened it. 
 He was attired in a black frock coat, a plaid 
 waistcoat, over which "meandered'" a glittering 
 gold chain, attached to a handsome watch of the 
 same precious metal, and " inexpressibles'"" of 
 clerical hue. His children too were well dressed, 
 Jean alone seemed " drabbish,"" but, then, she 
 bad a baby to mind, and no servant was kept. 
 
 It must not be supposed tbat the profits of 
 Thom's book of poems bad produced all this 
 prosperity. It did so, certainly, in an indirect 
 manner, but not by its actual sale. Thus it 
 was. By some lucky chance one of the volumes 
 found its way to the East Indies, where among 
 the Scottish residents it attracted considerable 
 attention. The poet's simple tale, prefixed to 
 the volume, enlisted the sympathies of bis 
 countrymen, who hailed the rising of a new 
 star in their poetical horizon with rejoicing. 
 Happily, their praise was not mere empty 
 breath. In the land of mohars and rupees, the 
 countrymen of William Tbom set on foot a 
 
1 60 LIONS ; LIVING AND DEAD. 
 
 subscription, which they designed, with cha- 
 racteristic forethought, should be apphed by 
 Thom to the purchase of looms, and other im- 
 plements necessary to the carrying on of his 
 business as a weaver. The result was that up- 
 wards of c'600 was raised and remitted in one 
 golden heap to the amazed and gratified poet. 
 And herein was a great mistake committed, 
 for he was not one of those who knew the value 
 of money, and could not keep it. The sudden 
 acquisition of wealth destroyed his balance. It 
 is true that a loom was purchased and set up, 
 but it was for show rather than use ; and 
 although on gold printed cards William Thom 
 announced that he had commenced business, 
 the shuttle seldom flew, and but few were the 
 products of his weaving skill. Had the c^600 
 been placed in the hands of judicious friends, 
 who would have carefully looked to its expen- 
 diture, the result might have been widely dif- 
 ferent from what it proved to be. 
 
 Thom, like most men of his mental stamp, 
 was fond of company and conviviality, and as 
 his conversational powers were of a high order, 
 he was a welcome guest everywhere. He half- 
 made the fortune of one publican of Penton- 
 ville, by nightly visiting his parlour, and so 
 attracting a considerable company. So highly 
 was he in favour with these worthies, that they 
 
WIM.IAM TIIOM. 161 
 
 subscribed anioni]^ themselvca to hrxvc liis por- 
 trait painted, and hung in the parlour. There 
 it hangs, in all the glory of a gilt frame, until 
 this day, I believe, at least it did so until very 
 lately. Well do I remember visiting this very 
 parlour with him, one evening, not long before 
 his death, when all of his i?600 was squan- 
 dered, and his appearance sadly changed. He 
 looked at the picture with a frown, and said 
 " Eh, mon ! but the fellows who had that 
 done, now that I've an auld coat on, wadna gie 
 me a glass o' gin to save my life." And I fancy 
 he was about right. 
 
 It is astonishing how friends and admirers 
 flocked around Thorn whilst his money lasted. 
 He literally kept open house at Charlotte Ter- 
 race ; but this could not last for ever, as his 
 history will show. But let me return to the 
 evening of my visit. 
 
 I saw that on that occasion he had a room 
 full of visitors these were mostly chartists. 
 Thom, himself, being inclined to their modes 
 of thinking, though he by no means went the 
 whole hog with the raving demagogues, of 
 physical force notoriety. One of these gentry 
 was, on the occasion of my visit, stretched at 
 full length on a sofa. He was a thin, 
 hungry-looking person, and dressed in a suit 
 compounded of Quakerism and Methodistio 
 
162 lions; living and dead. 
 
 attire, but at that time he was connected with 
 a chartist newspaper, and since then he has 
 figured as a parliamentary candidate ! This 
 worthy, whose vanity was enormous, was hic- 
 cuping out his insane principles at a great rate, 
 but did not seem to make much impression on 
 his hearers. Fortunately, the beer soon ful- 
 filled its " mission," and with the exception of 
 a snore, silenced him. Another person present 
 was a Mr. Den on, who had published a book 
 of poems which, though possessing some merit, 
 did not sell. I need not describe the rest of the 
 company. Thorn was the great man of the even- 
 ing,and seemed in first-rate spirits. Towards the 
 "small hours" he became quite " glorious," and 
 then he produced his flute that very instru- 
 ment of which he tells us so much in his simple 
 story. He played with considerable skill and 
 taste now a Scottish air now a jig or a tilt 
 now a medley composition of his own. All 
 care was forgotten, and in successive libations 
 of beer and brandy (we had got so high as that 
 now) toasts were drank, and healths given. 
 Towards midnight, the chartist on the sofa 
 called for eatables, and on the clothless table, 
 bread and cheese and onions were placed. Thom 
 told many good stories, and Den on sang 
 with great pathos, Scotch songs, and so the 
 time wore on until the dawn appeared, when I 
 
WILLIAM THOM. 163 
 
 quitted the bouse, leaving host and guests still 
 at it, and seemingly by no means disposed to 
 break iip. 
 
 Business about this time called me from the 
 metropolis, and six months elapsed before I 
 quitted the country. On my return to London 
 various occupations engaged my attention, and 
 I quite lost sight of William Thom. Happen- 
 ing, however, one day to be in his neighbour- 
 hood, I turned out of my way to call upon him, 
 but, on reaching Charlotte Terrace, I found 
 the house shut up, and the brass plate removed 
 from the door. Again I sought information 
 respecting him at the neighbouring gin-palace. 
 
 " Where's Thom gone V " ah ! the little lame 
 Scotchman, go weave !" said the landlord. 
 " Well he''8 cooked his goose and no mistake. 
 He's left this neighbourhood that's all I know." 
 Of some neighbour, however, I learned that he 
 had removed to somewhere near the Caledonian 
 Road, and ultimately I learned his present 
 direction. 
 
 He now occupied a small dwelling called 
 Albion Cottage, not very far from where now 
 stands the Maiden Lane terminus of the Great 
 Western Railway. He was from home when 
 I called, but his son *' Willie," as he called him, 
 said he would soon be in, and Jean begged me 
 to wait. And here I may mention that the 
 
164 LIOXS; LIVING AND DEAD. 
 
 Jean to whom 1 am now referring was not the 
 Jean of his narrative. She had died a victim 
 to penury and sore trial, and this was a second 
 partner. She was a rather pretty looking wo- 
 man, but care-worn. Thorn speaking of her to 
 me, said on one occasion " Jean is not her 
 name, but I call her so, I am so used to it and 
 so are the children, she is not a talented woman, 
 but she is devoted to me and the bairns." And 
 so indeed she appeared, and it must have been 
 a great comfort to the poor poet in his adver- 
 sity, to have had such a help-mate. I assumed 
 with some regret that she promised ere long to 
 increase the good man's household a source, as 
 I afterwards learned, of great trouble to him 
 also. "It most drives me crazy to think of it, 
 situated as we are," he exclaimed with tears in 
 his eyes. 
 
 I had not waited long before Thom made his 
 appearance. But how changed, he seemed very 
 glad to see me, but I could not help noticing 
 that his altered circumstances somewhat em- 
 barrassed him. No longer did he wear the 
 glossy-black coat plaid waistcoat and gold 
 watch. His frame was wrapped in an old 
 brown great coat, and which partly concealed 
 his shabby attire. He was ill, too and the 
 traces of "fast" living were evident a hollow 
 sounding cough distressed him much, and in 
 
WILLIAM THOM. 165 
 
 short, ho looked a completely broken down 
 man. 
 
 On this occasion he complained bitterly that 
 a certain wealthy individual who had patronised 
 him, had left him to battle with poverty as he 
 best could, after he had encouraged hira with 
 hopes of assistance. " Ho miserably deceived 
 me," said Thom, "and only made my situation 
 worse by raisin^ expectations never to be 
 realized. He had me at his mansion and 
 made a heir of me, and then cast me off. I 
 had too much independence for him, and he 
 wanted me to grovel I would have seen him 
 
 first." This gentleman, he said, had on 
 
 one occasion paid a visit to his house at Char- 
 lotte Terrace, during his temporary absence, 
 demanded to see his apartments his workshop, 
 and indeed to institute a domiciliary inspection, 
 and not liking the unbusiness like appearance 
 of the thing, had soundly rated him before his 
 wife and children for his imprudence. This 
 rankled in Thom's heart. In one of this 
 magnate's letters, he said that if Thom ever 
 returned to Scotland, there should always be a 
 crust and a heather bed for him at Ku s k. 
 " But is it likely I would go back in my 
 adversity V he asked. " No I would far 
 rather die here."*' 
 
 Not long after this visit to Albion Cottage, 
 
166 lions; living and lead. 
 
 I was one day walking along Highbury Terrace, 
 Islington, where I again encountered Thom. 
 He was standing at the corner of a street look- 
 ing deplorably ill and dejected his cheeks were 
 sallow, and his eyes sinking, hollow and dull, 
 and his frame emaciated. In his hand was one 
 of his volumes. 
 
 " What do you think I am waiting here 
 for r he said. Of course I could not conjec- 
 ture ; he said, " I am looking out for the baker 
 who goes by here usually at this time, he is a 
 countryman of mine, and I am in hopes he'll 
 buy this volume. Isn't it a hard thing that I 
 should be obliged to pedlar my poems to get a 
 dinner for Jeannie and the bairns ! I went," 
 he continued, " to the shop were the man 
 works, but the master baker pompously de- 
 manded what my business was with the man, 
 and who I was ? ' I am William Thom of 
 Inverury,** I replied, somewhat haughtily, ' the 
 author of this book.' He took it, turned over 
 the leaves, and I hoped he was going to buy it, 
 but he threw it down, sneered, and went to 
 his dinner." 
 
 Fortunately I was enabled to prevent the 
 sacrifice of the book, his only copy of his own 
 work, and I walked home with him ; arrived 
 there it was evident that stern necessity had 
 compelled him to part with many of his house- 
 
WILLIAM THOM. 167 
 
 hold comforts. We sat down, and while Jean 
 was cooking he told me some of his sorrows. 
 Among other troubles he mentioned that he had 
 been badly treated by the proprietor of a Scottish 
 magazine, who had promised him a certain sum 
 per month for his contributions. These had 
 been sent, but the money was never forwarded 
 to him but what annoyed him far more than 
 this, was the following affair, which absolutely 
 seemed to kindle his indignation. 
 
 It seemed that some little time before, there 
 appeared in a London weekly periodical, a 
 copy of verses entitled "a Farewell to London, 
 by William Thom of Inverury." The lines 
 were contemptible and William Thom never 
 wrote them Thom remonstrated, and the 
 Editor of the journal in question said that a 
 gentleman at one of the hotels in Covent Gar- 
 den had sent them, with a request that if in- 
 serted a certain number of copies would be 
 purchased by him. This was done, and as the 
 verses contained praises of a certain patron, 
 (before alluded to) it may be guessed who the 
 sender of the rhymes was. Thom was not only 
 annoyed but seriously inconvenienced by the 
 doggrel, for being a little in debt, no sooner had 
 his *' Farewell to London" appeared, than his 
 hungry creditors appeared also, fearing that he 
 was about to depart witUout satisfying their 
 
168 lions; living anp dead. 
 
 claims. " I met H ," said Thom, *' at the 
 
 National Hall, in Holborn, some time after, 
 and he promised me that be would mention in 
 his next journal that the lines were not mine, 
 but he never did, and when I a^ain pressed him 
 to do so, he asked me bluster ingly, ' what was 
 the use of my kicking up such a bobbery about 
 it.* " Of this man Thom had ever after the 
 most contemptible opinion. " He prates about 
 the people," he said, " and pretends to have 
 their good at heart but he is a tyrant at heart, 
 and quarrels with all who come in contact with 
 him." I believe from what I know of the 
 individual alluded to, that Thom was about 
 right. 
 
 William Thom grew gradually worse and 
 worse. He admitted that he had greatly abused 
 his system by "fuddling," as he termed it. " I 
 must have had a cast-iron constitution," he said 
 once to me, " to have stood what I have ; un- 
 fortunately he could not say " no," and trouble 
 often drove him to the bottle in which he vainly 
 strove to drown care. As usual, it only made 
 matters all the worse at last he almost lived 
 upon stimulants, his appetite was gone, and it 
 was evident that he was not long for this world. 
 Oatmeal mixed with cold water and well "stif- 
 fened" with rum was at once " victuals an 
 drink" to him : he took little else. 
 
WILLIAM THOM. 169 
 
 The last timo I ever saw Thorn was on the 
 evening'of A\*hit-Monday. I called on him, and 
 found him just about to set off with his children 
 to a fair which was held in the neighbourhood ; 
 I, at his request, went with him. With much 
 difficulty he strutted among the booths, and at 
 last, after buying *'some sweeties for the 
 bairnies," as he said, he, leaning heavily on my 
 arm, returned to Albion Cottage. He was then 
 evidently far gone in a consumption, and well 
 knew his situation. For himself he did not 
 appear to grieve, but the condition of his wife 
 and children greatly distressed him. 
 
 Shortly after this, some of his friends and 
 admirers proposed to raise funds sufficient to 
 send him back to Scotland, where it was hoped 
 better fortune might await him, or at least that 
 his wife might among her friends meet with 
 assistance. His son " Willie," had been sent 
 to St. Andrew's, by a gentleman, in order that 
 he might obtain an education suitable for a 
 mercantile life : and by the good offices of 
 Dr. Bowring, his second son Jamie obtained a 
 situation on the Blackwall Railway. Jennie 
 had brought him another bantling and with 
 his infants they set out for their native land, 
 in almost as necessitous circumstances as when 
 he had left it not very long before. He reached 
 Scotland and reached it but to die. On big 
 
] 70 LIONS ; LIVING AND DEAD. 
 
 arrival a dinner was given in his honour, at 
 which he made a speech, in which he said that 
 he felt in re-visiting the place of his birth, "like 
 a bird fluttering round its forsaken nest." Not 
 long did he thus flutter, for in Croft Lane, 
 Dundee, shortly afterwards, in poverty and pain, 
 died the Weaver Poet of Inverury. The se- 
 quel of his sad story is sad to contemplate ; liis 
 widow, Jean, caught cold while attending his 
 funeral, and soon after was attacked with 
 malignant typhus fever which speedily carried 
 her off. What became of the infant orphans 
 I know not. 
 
 Thus lived, struggled, and died, William 
 Thom, another instance of the calamities of 
 genius; and another proof, if others were want- 
 in<;, of the lack of business habits in those who 
 give way to vagaries of the imagination. It is 
 true that some men can and do combine the 
 pursuits of literature with the requirements of 
 every day duties, but these are few. Well 
 would it be for such as him of whom I have 
 been writing, to remember that " to get on in 
 the world, you must be content to be always 
 stopping where you are ; to advance you must 
 keep down. Following riches is like following 
 wild geese; and you must crawl after them both 
 on your belly ; the moment you pop up your 
 bead, off they go, whistling in the wind, and 
 
^VILL1A.M TIIOM. 171 
 
 you see no more of them. If you have no art 
 of sticking by nature, you must acquire it by 
 art ; put a couple of pounds of bird-lime upon 
 your office stool, and sit down upon it ; get a 
 chain on your leg, and lie yourself to your 
 counter like a pair of scissors, nail yourself up 
 against the wall of your place of business, like 
 a weasel on a barn door, or the sign of the 
 spread eagle ; or what would do best of all, 
 marry an honest poor girl without a penny, and 
 my life for yours if you don't do business. 
 Never mind what your relations say about 
 genius, talents, learning, pushing, enterprise, 
 and such stuff; when they come advising you 
 for your good, stick up to them for the loan of 
 a sovereign, and if you ever see them on your 
 side of the street again, shiver me in welcome ; 
 but to do any good, I tell you over and over 
 again, you must be a sticker. You may get fat 
 upon a rock, if you never quit your hold of it."* 
 
172 
 
 CHAPTER XL 
 
 J. S. BUCKINGHAM THOMAS CARLYLE LITERARY 
 
 LECTURERS WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY 
 
 ALBERT SMITH AND SAMUEL LOVER WITH A 
 
 GLANCE AT AMERICAN LECTURERS, P. WHIPPLE, 
 AND OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES. 
 
 The example set long ago by Mr. James Silk 
 Buckingham, of an author's leaving the silence 
 and seclusion of his study for the noisy applause 
 and publicity of a lecture room, has of late 
 found followers and successful ones, too, in 
 three at least of the most popular writers of 
 the day, whose names appear at the head of 
 this chapter. If rumour does not greatly ex- 
 aggerate, we are compelled to believe that 
 these oral productions are much more profitable 
 to their authors than written lucubrations. We 
 are told tbat Albert Smith, for instance, by 
 his descriptive lectures on his Eastern tour, has 
 made quite a large fortune compared with the 
 sum received by Thackeray for his book of 
 
J. S. BDCKINGHAM. 173 
 
 travels in the same part of the world, entitled 
 * A Journey from Cornliill to Cairo," and that 
 by the personal description of his recent ascout 
 of Mount Blanc, ho is reckoninfj^ his gains by 
 thousands of pounds. Lover, too, both in 
 England and America, has reaped an abundant 
 harvest by his Irish entertainments ; and it is 
 said that Mr. Thackeray ""s recent lectures in 
 London, not only stamped him as a critic of 
 the first water, but were eminently successful 
 in a pecuniary point of view. *Lito the causes 
 of these successes it is no part of my business 
 just now to inquire ; to every one it will be 
 evident enough that curiosity to see and hear a 
 lion of literature is doubtless the attraction with 
 many who attend his lectures. This to some 
 must be much more satisfactory than a prefixed 
 "portrait of the author,"* which is often enough 
 as unlike the original as the sign-post daubs of 
 the Marquis of Granby resemble the great ori- 
 ginal himself. If this sort of thing continue to 
 go on ^0 prosperously as it has begun, we may 
 expect by-and-by that the publisher's trade will 
 greatly fall off ^so far it is natural to suppose 
 that an author will, especially as it pays 
 prefer to speak his words to printing them, 
 and to some the additional stimulus will be 
 afforded of gratifying their vanity into the bar- 
 gain. 
 
174< lions; living and dead. 
 
 In America literary lecturers are frequent 
 enough. The names of Emerson, Whipple, 
 Oliver Wendell Holmes, and others, will 
 readily occur to the memories of those who are 
 at all acquainted with men and manners in the 
 New World. Ralph Waldo Emerson has been 
 so often heard in England, that few among my 
 readers will not be familiar with the person and 
 peculiarities of the subtle thinker. It is there- 
 fore unnecessary to do more than merely allude 
 to him. In this country Mr. Whipple is com- 
 paratively unknown, though in America he 
 has deservedly an exceeding high reputation, 
 both as a critic and a lecturer. In the former 
 capacity he indubitably stands at the head of 
 his order in the New World, as many of the 
 ablest papers in the " North American Quar- 
 terly Review'' sufficiently attest. Without the 
 faintest approach to an imitation of MacauTay, 
 his works remind us of the graphic power and 
 splendid diction of that great critic. It may 
 unhesitatingly be asserted, that no more judi- 
 cious estimates of the works of our great English 
 writers instance poetical and polemical, have 
 ever appeared anywhere, than those which Mr. 
 Whipple has penned. At this moment there 
 lie before us two volumes of " Essays and Re- 
 views," by this gentleman, which are really 
 splendid contributions to modern literature, 
 
J. S. BUCKINGHAM. 175 
 
 and which when they bccomo known in this 
 country, must meritedly tako their place bcsido 
 the great efforts of Jeffrey, Gifford, Stephen, 
 and Macaulay. For searching, clear, discri- 
 nunatin^r articles in our old English dramatists, 
 in Southey, Macaulay, Talford, James, Words- 
 worth, Byron, Shelley, Coleridge, Tennyson 
 in short, in the chief English poets of the nine- 
 teenth century, as well as in American litera- 
 ture, commend us to the work of the American 
 reviewer. 
 
 As a lecturer Mr, E. P. Whipple is no less 
 effective. Should you, reader, ever visit the 
 land of Washington, fail not to attend his 
 courses should you ever be fortunate enough to 
 get the opportunity. We will suppose you 
 seated beside us in some Athenaeum or other. 
 The apartment is crammed, for the name of 
 the speaker is guarantee of excellence. The 
 moment for commencing arrives, and on the 
 rostrum appears an individual considerably 
 below the medium height, and of a light 
 figure. The head strikes you at a glance 
 it is large, and well developed. High, broad, 
 and expansive is the forehead, over which 
 sweeps brownish hair. The eyes are re- 
 markable largo, full, and projecting, wMth 
 an intensity of expression in their grey depths. 
 But why chronicle when the field of mental 
 
176 lions; living and dead. 
 
 excellence is outspread before us ? Mr. Whip- 
 ple is fluent, distinct, and impressive, and bis 
 manner, equally free from affectation, or an- 
 noyance, enlists the audience in bis favour. 
 Whatever his subject may be an exposition 
 of the genius of Dickens an essay on wit 
 and humour a, discourse on genius, or on 
 intellectual health and disease, he handles it 
 like a master. More need not be said, for 
 in a neat volume these lectures are published, 
 and in America have a wide celebrity. Enough 
 now to say, that we know of no one, either 
 in England or America, so likely as Mr. 
 Whipple (for he is yet but a young man) 
 to become the Jeffrey of his time. 
 
 Not long since I observed on the walls of 
 the city of Brooklyn, New York, a placard 
 notifying that a lecture would be delivered 
 in the Institute by Dr. Oliver Wendell 
 Holmes. Gladly did I embrace the oppor- 
 tunity of hearing this true man of genius, 
 I think I am correct in saying that Dr. 
 Holmes has an European reputation. By 
 some he has been called the Thomas Hood 
 of America : but this is scarcely p. just appel- 
 lation, for, although like the English poet, 
 he possesses in an extraordinary degree the 
 powers of pun and pathos, he is to the full 
 as original-minded a man as the author of 
 
J. S. BUCKINGHAM. 177 
 
 the ** Son^ of tlio Shirt." A great deal is 
 said ahout American humour, hut in truth 
 the genuine article is a scarce one in the 
 Western World, for in my opinion, the 
 " bar stories" of Crockatt, and the Down East 
 yarns of the Yankee States do not come 
 under that category. Holmes, however, is a 
 true humourist, just as true a one as was 
 Swift, or Steele, Sheridan or Hooke, and he 
 is as veritable a poet too as Wordsworth, or 
 Bryant Goldsmith or Longfellow. For proof 
 of this, read his " Astra?," or his " Poetry 
 ^a Metrical Essay." Then his mirth is in- 
 exhaustible, puns distil like drops of quick- 
 silver from his pen. At times, beneath the 
 broad flashing surface of his mirth there runs 
 an under current of melancholy. Miss Mit- 
 ford, speaking of him, says, " For him we can 
 find no living prototype ; to track his footsteps 
 we must travel as far back as Pope or Dryden, 
 and, to my mind, it would be well if some of 
 our bards would take the same journey pro- 
 vided always it produced the same result. 
 Lofty, poignant, graceful, grand, high of 
 thought, and clear of word, we could fancy 
 ourselves reading some pungent page of ' Ab- 
 salom and Achitophel,"* or of the ' Moral Epis- 
 tles,' if it were not for the pervading nationality, 
 which, excepting Whittier, American poets 
 H 2 
 
] 78 LIONS ; LIVING AND DEAD. 
 
 generally wanted, and for that true reflection 
 of the manners and the follies of the age, with- 
 out which satire would fail alike of its purpose 
 and its name/' 
 
 This is high praise, but not at all unde- 
 served ; as all will, I am sure, admit, who 
 read the poems of Oliver Wendell Holmes. 
 
 As a lecturer, in which capacity I have now 
 more particularly to do with him, Dr. Holmes 
 is remarkably popular ; and little wonder that 
 it should be so ; indeed, he seems everywhere 
 to be regarded rather as a personal than a 
 public favourite as Liston, when he merely 
 showed his face on the stage, put his audience 
 on the broad grin without the utterance of a 
 syllable, so Dr. Holmes, whenever he ascends 
 the lecturing platform, by the magic of that 
 open, cheerful, intellectual face of his own, 
 invariably wins golden opinions and genuine 
 good-humour. 
 
 In regard to personal appearance. Dr. Holmes 
 resembles some other illustrious sons of song 
 like Thomas Moore and Isaac Watts, he is 
 Lacchean in his altitude, in plainer language, 
 he is of short but compact stature. His face is 
 one of the most attractive in the world, from 
 the veryjoyousness of its expression, at times, 
 
 " Like auy fair lake that the breeze is upon, 
 It breaks into dimples, and laughs in the sun." 
 
J. S. BUCKINGHAM. 179 
 
 The eyes are largo and liquid, the forehead 
 high, but not very broad, the hair dark. Tho 
 nasal organ is prominent, and tho mouth so 
 versatile in expression that no definite expres- 
 sion can well bo assigned to it. When speak- 
 ing it seems " constant to a constant change." 
 After all that may be said about eyes, depend 
 on it, tho mouth is the most expressive feature 
 in tho face, and the one which tho most clearly 
 indicates character. Yet Dr. Holmes can look 
 grave too, when he likes, or when his duties 
 require dignity. See him, as we have done, 
 going his rounds through the wards of the 
 Hospital in Boston, stethoscope in hand, or in 
 his professional chair, at the Massachussetts 
 Medical College, and you will behold a truly 
 scientific practitioner of the healing art for 
 Holme stands as high among physicians as 
 among poets. Regarding him thus, who would 
 dream that he could possibly write the " Song 
 of the Stethoscope." Would that space per- 
 mitted us to present our readers with this 
 capital " hit" at professional folly ; or with his 
 " Morning Visit," which every young man 
 should read when commencing the practice of 
 his profession. Well, then, we must return to 
 Dr. Holmes himself, and, we think, we cannot 
 better wind up our account of his personal ap- 
 
IBO lions; living and dead. 
 
 pearance than by applying to him Goldsraith'^s 
 line, and declaring that he is 
 
 " An abridgement of all that is pleasant in man." 
 
 Dr. Holmes is an admirable lecturer, but 
 any description would fail to do him justice in 
 this character. His manner is, as might be 
 expected, lively and vivacious, and he never 
 fails to make his points tell. It is really quite 
 delightful to see the play of his countenance, 
 the flash of his eye, the glitter of his " ivories,"'' 
 when from his lips fall biting sarcasms, or 
 pungent pleasantries. Of the latter he is 
 always affluent, but his wit is so admirably 
 balanced by his judgment, that it never palls 
 from over repletion, or by the attenuation of a 
 thought. We know of no way of spending an 
 hour more profitably or pleasantly than in 
 setting out one of these lectures, which for 
 originality, brilliancy and point can scarcely be 
 surpassed. 
 
 Mr. James Silk Buckingham, to whom we 
 have before referred, was about the first to 
 commence the literary lecturing campaign. 
 His first lectures were descriptions of his travels 
 in the East, which were very attractive to 
 those who did not care much about elegant 
 composition. These efforts were showy taking 
 
CARLYLK. 181 
 
 sort of tilings nothing more. The succeeding 
 lectures on America were simply ridiculous. 
 Since they were delivered Mr. Buckingham 
 has started half a dozen different schemei?, 
 among them the " British and Foreign Desti- 
 tute," as " Punch" called his Institute in 
 George Street, Hanover Square, all of which, 
 bubhle-like, liave burst. Of late a pension has 
 been granted him, and he enjoys, we hope, 
 his otium cum dlgnltate. So much for Buck- 
 ingham. 
 
 Mr. G. P. R. James, the well-known novelist 
 who has settled in America, and residesat Stock 
 bridge, Massachussetts, has also occasionally 
 lectured since he left England ; but I believe 
 he has not made any great impression ; at least, 
 so I am told, for I have not had an opportu- 
 nity of hearing him. 
 
 A few years ago, great interest was caused by 
 the announcement that Mr. Thomas Carlyle 
 would deliver a course of lectures. The great 
 sensation which his books had caused, of course 
 
 attracted to the Rooms the most brilliant 
 
 of audiences. And here some account of Car- 
 lyle's antecedents, for which I am indebted to 
 the " Critic,"" may be interesting. 
 
 This remarkable man was born, I believe, 
 in the year 1795, near Ecclefechan, a hamlet 
 of Dumfriesshire, which lies in the midst of a 
 
182 lions; living and dead. 
 
 quiet pastoral and agricultural district. His 
 f^ither was a mason, or small builder, who 
 afterwards added to his first occupation the 
 care of a slender farm. Unlike his immediate 
 progenitors, who are said to have been more 
 noted for strength of head and hand than for 
 rigidity of manners, Oarlyle's father, according 
 to the general testimony, was a man of great 
 exactness of walk, of earnest and religious dis- 
 position, and full of native wisdom ; in fact, 
 one of those rustic heroes whom Oarlyle delights 
 to paint, when, as in the case of the fathers of 
 Burns and Diderot, he meets with them in real 
 life. The family was a pretty numerous one 
 of sons and daughters, and reckons among its 
 members the gentleman who a few years ago 
 published an excellent translation of Dante's 
 " Inferno." The youthful Oarlyle received the 
 rudiments of education at a neighbouring parish 
 school, but not showing such progress in the 
 acquisition of Latin as was to be expected from 
 a boy of his talent, was committed to the charge 
 of an old clergyman of the district, under whom 
 he made rapid strides, and was pronounced at 
 an early age fit for the Edinburgh University, 
 thither, accordingly, he was sent, about the 
 year 1813, with a couple or so of years allowed 
 him to determine what profession would suit 
 him best. The session of the Edinburgh Univer- 
 
(Aui.Ti.t:. 1S.3 
 
 'sity occu})ies little more than a half of the year, 
 and the roniai ruler for some time was spent 
 under his father's roof. After a year or two, 
 it would seem that the Church of Scotland 
 was fixed on as tlio arena in which Carlyle's 
 talents were to he displayed, and the long and 
 dreary probation of eight years which that 
 church demands was accordingly entered on. 
 Carlyle's academical career was of a mixed 
 character. According to his college contempo- 
 raries, he was distinguished by proficiency nei- 
 ther in classics, nor in science, nor in meta- 
 physics ; his favourite and successful study was 
 geometry. His aptness for this gained him 
 the liking and approbation of Professor Leslie, 
 who then filled the chair of mathematics at 
 Edinburgh, and through him the young Car- 
 lyle became a teacher as well as a learner of 
 the science ; especially for several years at a 
 school in Kirkaldy, a town almost fronting 
 Edinburgh, on the opposite side of the Frith 
 of Forth, and from which the young student of 
 divinity could easily repair, at stated intervals, 
 to college to read the necessary exercises ; just 
 as our non-resident students of la^ eat their 
 terms at the Temple or Lincoln's Inn. Car- 
 lyle's residence at Kirkaldy, with its occasional 
 escapes to Dumfriesshire, was, as might be 
 expected from his age, a most important period 
 
184 lions; living and dead. 
 
 of his life. His attachment to, and prosecution 
 of the study of geometry were confirmed by the 
 nature of his daily avocations, and produced in 
 his mind a certain stiffness, so to speak, of 
 which there are traces in his earlier productions. 
 At Kirkaldy, too, he made or strengthened an 
 acquaintance with Edward Irving, like him- 
 self an Annandale man, like himself a student 
 of divinity, and once more, like himself, a 
 teacher in a Kirkaldy school. By residents in 
 Kirkaldy, I have heard the two described as 
 often seen walking on the sea-beach in earnest 
 conversation, and no doubt the doctrines of the 
 church which both were preparing to enter, 
 formed frequently a main portion of their talk, 
 to which it would not be surprising if Carlyle 
 contributed the sceptical, and Irving the be- 
 lieving portion. It is curious that both these 
 men should afterwards have made so very 
 peculiar a figure in London, as stormy denoun- 
 cers (each in his own fashion) of the established 
 present, and prophets of a better future. 
 
 In "Sartor Resartos" Carlyle himself has so 
 vividly painted -the stages of his early mental 
 developm#it, and his writings throughout so 
 unequivocally betray the peculiarities of his 
 personal character, that it is unnecessary in 
 a sketch like the present to dwell on either. 
 About 1823, it would seem, he resolved to 
 
CARLYf.E. 185 
 
 ([iiit Kirkaldy, i20t to enter the cburcli, but to 
 establish himself at Edinburgh as an *' author 
 by profession." His mind had been well 
 disciplined by his previous career ; it was 
 stored with general information by habits of 
 miscellaneous reading, and accident had re- 
 cently introduced him to the study of German 
 literature. In his solitary Edinburgh home, 
 the lofty stoicism of Fichte nerved him for 
 the glorious difficulties of a literary career ; 
 the powerful and beautiful imaginings of 
 Schiller transported him into an element of 
 art far finer and higher than any ho had 
 breathed in the Scotts and Byrons of his 
 time ; and Goethe, if not yet fully appreciated, 
 was beginning to teach him how to cast that 
 calm representative glance on men and things 
 which, strangely struggling with his native 
 vehemence of disposition, is more or less dis- 
 played in all his works. The year 1824 ex- 
 hibits results of all Carlyle's past studies and 
 culture. Sir David Brewster introduced him 
 to ' The Encyclopaedia Edinensis," then edited 
 by that well known savant, and where Car- 
 lyle'^s articles on Montesquieu and Montaigne, 
 on Nelson and the County of Norfolk, and on 
 the two Pitts, may still be read with interest 
 and instruction. Carlyle's very earliest essay 
 is, I believe (and it may be mentioned for the 
 
186 LIOXS ; LIVIKG AND DEAD. 
 
 sake of future Bosvvells,) to be seen in a num- 
 ber for tbe year 1 824, of a short-lived publica- 
 tion called " The New Edinburgh Review;" the 
 subject, Joanna Baillie's Plays of the Passions, 
 The same year witnessed the publication of a 
 translation from his hand of Legendre's 
 "Geometry," pubhshed in Paris the year before, 
 and to which is affixed an Essay on Propor- 
 tions, by Carlyle himself, which has obtained, 
 I believe, the praise of professional mathema- 
 ticians. Edinburgh booksellers still hint to 
 you of minor translations, such as that of " Paul 
 and Virginia," in which Carlyle had a share, 
 but they may be safely left to the researches of 
 future Boswells. His chief achievement in 
 this department, belonging to the year 1824, 
 was the translation of Goethe^s famous novel 
 of " Wilhelm Meister," with a preface by the 
 translator, which, as well as the translation 
 itself, showed Carlyle to be a man of no 
 ordinary talents. Jeffrey, while " cutting up" 
 the novel itself, in " The Edinburgh Review," 
 pronounced the translator to be a " person of 
 parts." De Quincey, on the other hand, who 
 had previously been considered (or had con- 
 sidered himself) the chief English cultivator 
 of German Literature, denounced " Wilhelm 
 Meister," in "The London Magazine," not 
 merely as a bad book, but as a bad translation ; 
 
CARLYLE. 187 
 
 !id strove to prove that Carlyle did not under- 
 stand English. 
 
 About this period, Carlyle seems to have 
 visited London for the first time ; at any rate, 
 it was now that his ''Life of Schiller," began to 
 appear piecemeal in '* The London Magazine,'' 
 then the cleverest of metropolitan periodicals, 
 supported by Charles Lamb, Hazlitt, Allan 
 Cunningham, and others of their schools. On 
 his return to Scotland, Edward Irving intro- 
 duced him to the family of the late Charles 
 Buller, to whom and his brother he acted for 
 some time as tutor. Charles Buller's career 
 throughout life he watched with care, and it 
 was with Mr. Buller^s appointment to the 
 Chief Commissionership of the Poor-law Board 
 that there developed itself in Carlyle that inte- 
 rest in the pauper question which, peculiarly 
 manifested, has lately astonished some of his 
 readers. About this time, also, he married a 
 lady whom Goethe describes as " beautiful and 
 highly cultivated,*" and with this event began 
 the settled period of his existence. For some 
 years afterwards, he lived alternately in Edin- 
 burgh, and at a little estate in Dumfriesshire, 
 called Craigenputtoch, engaged in literary la- 
 bours. During this period he produced his 
 '' Specimens of German Romance," and com- 
 menced his connection with " The Edinburgh" 
 
188 LIONS ; LIVING AND DEAD. 
 
 and " Foreign Reviews." The Kirkaldy 
 teacher had ah*eady become a noted man. 
 Among his correspondents (thanks to the 
 translation of " Meister*") he reckoned Goethe 
 himself. 
 
 For a year or two more, writing for the 
 reviews, and composing " Sartor Resartus," 
 Carlyle remained in Scotland, fluctuating be- 
 tween Craigenputtoch and Edinburgh. By stu- 
 dious men of penetration, on both sides of the 
 Atlantic, he was beginning to be recognised for 
 what he is ; and the young Emerson, coming 
 about this time to England, pilgrimed as natu- 
 rally to Craigenputtoch and Carlyle, as to Rydal 
 Mount and Wordsworth. But " the profes- 
 sorial or other office," alluded to in his letter to 
 Goethe, did not offer itself ; and, not long after 
 the opening of the thirties, Carlyle settled in 
 London. " Sartor Resartus" saw the light in 
 " Eraser's Magazine," to which, as well as to 
 the " Foreign Quarterly," and the ' London 
 and Westminster Review," he contributed with 
 more or less steadiness for many years. Mean- 
 while, too, was proceeding the elaboration and 
 publication of that remarkable series of works 
 which, in point of art, not less than from their 
 many-sided vigour, throw all contemporary 
 literature into the shade " The French Re- 
 volution," " Chartism," " Past and Present," 
 
CAKLYLK. 189 
 
 ** Cromwell's Letters and Speeches," and, but 
 last year, the " Latter-Day Pamphlets." And 
 from time to time, there were intercalated as 
 it were, oral lectures on German Literature, 
 on the Three Periods of European Culture, on 
 Modern Revolutions, on Heroes and Hero- 
 Worship, to which the aristocracy and mitred 
 orthodoxy of London crowded, and were brought 
 face to face with the man whose writings had 
 excited their bewildered and admiring wonder- 
 ment. 
 
 Perhaps the best way to estimate the nature 
 and extent of Carlyle''s influence is to consider 
 the strange variety of minds which have been 
 irresistibly drawn into his immediate sphere, 
 and sought his counsel or co-operation. Other 
 thinkers have had their fixed circles of admirers 
 or worshippers, but every circle has sent its 
 quota to Carlyle's. Call over the roll of persons 
 who have been in relations with him, and what 
 contemporary can show the like. A " World- 
 poet," like Goethe ; ecclesiastics, like the 
 Bishop of St. David's, Dr. Arnold of Rugby, 
 Dr. Chalmers, and Professor Maurice ; states- 
 men, like Sir Robert Peel, and the late Charles 
 Buller ; agitations, the Anti Corn-law League 
 and the Secular School Association; hard, 
 practical men, like Edwin Chadwick, and Mr. 
 Whitworth, the competitor for the honour of 
 
190 LIONS ; LIVING AND DEAD. 
 
 sweeping Manchester streets ; revolutionists, 
 Mazzini and Oavignac ; men of letters in every 
 department, and of every conceivable shade of 
 opinion Southey, Lockhart, Jeffrey, John 
 Sterling, John Stuart Mill, Ebenezer Elliot, 
 Thomas Cooper, (the Chartist,) Samuel Rogers, 
 Samuel Bamfordthe American Emerson, Miss 
 Martineau, Leigh Hunt, Monckton Milnes, 
 and all the young men of talent of the day. 
 And practically, no useful scheme or measure 
 has been carried out of late years, from the 
 founding of the London Library to the repeal 
 of the Corn-laws, which does not owe some- 
 thing to him. 
 
 I attended several of these lectures. At the 
 time appointed for their commencement, Mr. 
 Carlyle appeared in his place. He appeared 
 rather tall ; his dress was plain a black frock 
 coat, with velvet collar, a plain stock, a waist- 
 coat buttoned up close to the throat, and a high 
 shirt collar. The face was strongly indicative 
 of vast mental power ; the forehead was high, 
 broad, and projecting in its upper portion, 
 across which swept, from right to left, dark 
 hair; piercing dark eyes glowed beneath heavy 
 browns, and his nose, ridged across at its junc- 
 tion with the forehead, w^as well shaped and 
 symmetrical. The mouth was compressed and 
 prim-looking, the chin long. An absence of 
 
tARI.YLK. 191 
 
 whiskers ^i\\c the lecturer a more youthful 
 appearance than he would have displayed with 
 the addition of these hisute appendages. 
 Evidently the owner of that face was a pro- 
 found thinker. Seldom have I seen a more 
 expressive countenance, in which a shade of 
 sternness seemed to predominate. 
 
 The lecturer commenced in a harsh, broad 
 Scottish voice, which rendered it ^mewhat 
 difficult to be understood: by Southern ears. 
 And the difficulty was increased by Mr. Car- 
 lyle's peculiar style of word-manufacturing and 
 word dove-tailing a language which Mr. 
 Home says, was " strange, nearly as strange 
 as Bentham's own :" not English by any 
 means, the critics said it spoke ; nor even 
 (rerman, nor Greek ; although possessing con- 
 sitferably more of the two latter than English ; 
 but more of Saxon than either, we humbly 
 beg to add. Yet, if the grammarians and 
 public teachers could not measure it out to pass 
 as classic English, after the measure of Swift 
 or Addison, or even Bacon or Milton, if new 
 words sprang gauntly in it, from savage deriva- 
 tives and rushed together in outlandish combi- 
 nations, if the collocation was distortion, 
 wandering wildly up and down, if the com- 
 ments were everywhere in a heap, like the 
 "pots and pans'*' of Bassano, classic or not, 
 
192 lions; living and deal*. 
 
 English or not, it was certainly a true lan- 
 guage God's breath was in the vowels of it, 
 and the clashing of these harsh compounds, at 
 last, brought the bees into assembly, each 
 murmuring his honey-dream. And the hearers 
 who stood longest to listen, became sensible of 
 a still, grave music, issuing, like smoke, from 
 the clefts of the rock it was soul language. 
 
 We (^ivell the longer upon the construction 
 of Mr. Oarlyle's sentences, because of him it is 
 pre-eminently true that the speech is the 
 man. All powerful writers will leave, more 
 or less, the pressure of their individuality in 
 the medium of their communication with the 
 public. Even the idiomatic writers, who trust 
 their thoughts to an idiomatic or conventional 
 phraseology, and thus attain to a recognised 
 level perfection in the medium, at the expanse 
 of being less instantly massive and expressive, 
 have each an individual aspect. But the indi- 
 viduality of the writer is strangely pronounced. 
 It is graven like the Queen's arrow upon 
 the poker and tongs of her national prisons 
 upon.the meanest vrord of his utterance. He 
 uses no moulds in his modelling, as you may 
 see by the impression of his thumb nail upon 
 the clay. He throws his truth with so much 
 vehemence, that the print of the palm of his 
 hand is left on it. Let no man scoff at the 
 
CAllLYLE. ^Oti 
 
 lan<Tungo of Carlylc, for it forms part of his 
 idiosyncracy forms part of his truth." 
 
 And yet some people do sneer at his lan- 
 guage ; and a friend of ours a man of mark, 
 too asserted that Carlylo never ought to pub- 
 lish a book without sending with it an inter- 
 linear translation. He was not alone in his 
 way of thinking. 
 
 Mr. Carlyle's lecturing closely resembled his 
 published productions, but they derived a pecu- 
 liar interest from the earnestness with which 
 they were delivered. His hard, expressive, 
 compound phrases, dragged out with vast 
 energy, from the chamber of his capacious 
 mind, by, as it were, a cable of harsh-sounding 
 broadest-of-broad Scotch, acquired added force 
 from the efforts of their producer. His action 
 was at times considerable, but not altogether 
 inelegant; his eyes glowed as with inspiration, 
 and in the more intricate or emphatic passages 
 the muscles of his face appeared to quiver with 
 emotion. Evidently he said what he meant, 
 and what he thought ; but it is to be feared 
 that not one out of ten of the ?/7e-transcendental 
 people who listened to him, had even the very 
 faintest conception of what he meant. How- 
 ever the inexplicabilities were utterances of 
 Carlyle, and that was sufficient. Few, indeed, 
 admitted that they were puzzled mystified 
 
1 94 LIONS ; LIVING AND DEAD. 
 
 flabbergasted, they would not be out of the 
 popular Carlyle fashion, so they said little, 
 looked wise ^gave judicious nods of the head, 
 and knowing winks, and so passed off as very 
 deep fellows. Many of his readers at the pre- 
 sent day, would confess themselves to be quite 
 as ignorant, if they dared to speak the truth. 
 
 Among Carlyle's audience were to be found, 
 of course, a fair sprinkling of literary people. 
 Among them Leigh Hunt was conspicuous. 
 There sat the author of " Rimini," alongside 
 his son Thornton, the " P.L.H." of Shelley's 
 verses, and the son to whom the sire addressed 
 the beautiful lines commencing 
 
 " Sleep breathes at last from out thee. 
 My little, patient boy." 
 
 His now grizzled hair was parted in the centre 
 of his forehead, and the crow's-feet in the angles 
 of his large lustrous eyes, though they betoken- 
 ed advancing age, had not dimmed their bright- 
 ness. The cheeks did not look so full as of old, 
 especially about their lower portions ; but the 
 mouth was as expressive as ever. Every one 
 is acquainted with the portraits of Hunt, and 
 therefore 1 need not be minute in my pencilling. 
 To me he was almost as interesting an indivi- 
 dual as any in the room. In him I saw one 
 who had fought the battle of life well, and had 
 
CAULYLE. 195 
 
 lived down a host of calumnies. His son was 
 much like him in person. He is now, I be- 
 lieve, editor of the " Leader" newspaper. 
 
 The following story of Leigh Hunt and Car- 
 lyle is highly characteristic of the parties, and 
 may not be thought out of place here. 
 
 These celebrated writers were once present 
 among a small party of equally well-known 
 men. It chanced that the conversation rested 
 with these two both first-rate talkers and 
 the others sat well pleased to listen. Leigh 
 Hunt said something about the Islands of the 
 Blest, or El Dorado, or Millenium, and was 
 flowing on in his bright and hopeful way, when 
 Carlyle dropped some heavy tree-trunks across 
 Hunt's pleasant stream, and touched it up with 
 philosophical doubts and objections at every 
 interval of the speaker's joyous progress. But 
 the unmitigated Hunt never ceased his over- 
 flowing anticipations, nor the saturnine Carlyle 
 his infinite demurs to those finite flourishings. 
 The listeners laughed and applauded by turns, 
 and had now fairly pitted them against each 
 other, as the Philosopher of Hopefulness and 
 the Unhopefull, The contest continued with 
 all that ready wit and philosophy that mix- 
 ture of pleasantry and profundity that extreme 
 knowledge of books and character, with their 
 ready application in argument and illustration, 
 
196 LIONS ; LIVING AND DEAD. 
 
 and that perfect ease and good-nature which 
 distinguish each of these men. The opponents 
 were so well matched that it was quite clear 
 the contest would never come to an end ; but 
 the night was far advanced, and the party broke 
 up. They all sallied forth, and leaving the 
 close room, the candles, and the arguments 
 behind them, suddenly found themselves in 
 presence of a bright star-light night. They all 
 looked up. " Now," thought Hunt, " Oarlyle's 
 done for. He can have no answer to that." 
 " There,'"* shouted Hunt, " look up there, look 
 at that glorious harmony, that sings with in- 
 finite voices an eternal song of hope in the ear 
 of man." Oarlyle looked up. They all remained 
 silent, to hear what he would say. They be- 
 gan to think that he was silenced at last for 
 he was a mortal man. But out of that silence 
 came a few low-toned words, in a broad Scotch 
 accent. And who on earth could have anti- 
 cipated what the voice said ? " Eh ! its a sad 
 sight I" Hunt sat down on a stone step. 
 They all laughed, then looked very thoughtful. 
 Had the finite measured itself with infinity in- 
 stead of surrendering itself up to the influence?" 
 Again they laughed, then bade each other good 
 niofht, and betook themselves homeward with 
 slow and serious pace. There might be some 
 reason for sadness, too. That brilliant firma- 
 
CARLYLE. 197 
 
 in out probably contained infinite worlds, each 
 full of stru<jgli ng and suffering beings of be- 
 ings who had to die for life in the stars im- 
 plies that those bright worlds should also be 
 full of graves ; but all that life, like ours, 
 knoweth not whence it came, nor whither it 
 goeth, and the brilliant universe in its great 
 movement having, perhaps, no more certain 
 knowledge of itself, nor of its ultimate destina- 
 tion, than hath one of the suffering specks that 
 compose this small spot we inhabit. 
 
198 
 
 CHAPTER XIT. 
 
 LITERARY LECTURERS WILLIAM M. THACKERAY- 
 ALBERT SMITH AND SAMUEL LOVER, WITH A 
 
 GLANCE AT AMERICAN" LECTURERS. 
 
 The lectures, interspersed with his own songs, 
 given by Samuel Lover, the well known author 
 of "Rory O'More," were amazingly attractive. 
 They were not exactly literary lectures, but 
 they were the productions of, and delivered by, 
 one of the most popular of literary men, and 
 that was enough. Every one had heard "Rory 
 O'More" sung or played, and the " AngeFs 
 Whisper" had charmed many a festive circle. 
 Besides his poetical acquirements. Lover was a 
 beautiful miniature painter, an expert illustra- 
 tor of his own works, and an accomplished 
 musician, for he composed and played his own 
 songs. Few persons, too, told a tale with more 
 gusto than the author of " Handy Andy." 
 Who can forget the inimitable manner in 
 which he gave the " Adventures of Barney 
 O'Reardon, the Navigator," or the rollicking 
 
ALBERT SMITH. 199 
 
 style of his " Bould Sodger Boy," or the in- 
 tense of comicality of the " Gridiron" story ? 
 No man but an Irishman, and that Irishman 
 Sam Lover, could have elicited such uproarious 
 applause as he did from all classes. His out- 
 ward man was prepossessing. Small, and 
 graceful in stature and form, and vivacious in 
 feature, he looked the very incarnation of hu- 
 mour. Witty, graceful, and ever gay, like the 
 *' Jolly Young Waterman" of Dibdin's ballad, 
 he went on his lecturing tour through England 
 and America, 
 
 " Winning each heart, and delighting each eye.** 
 
 Large as his profits must have been from 
 other sources, there can be little doubt that he 
 derived greater emolument from these lectures 
 than from his novels and songs. We have not 
 heard of him as a public speaker of late pos- 
 sibly he may be preparing a new budget of wit 
 and humour. Let us at least hope so. When- 
 ever he chooses to come forth from his privacy, 
 he will surely meet with a warm and a hearty 
 welcome. 
 
 Who has not heard of Albert Smith, the 
 founder of the '* Ghent" school of literature? 
 The first time we ever saw him was in the 
 Egyptian Hall, Piccadilly, where we came 
 
200 LIONS ; LIVING AND DEAD. 
 
 accidentally upon him, as he was mounted and 
 caracolling Mr. Carter's, the Lion King's 
 mammoth horse, General Washington, which 
 was heing exhibited in the room below that in 
 which General Tom Thumb held his crowded 
 levees, and received caresses from half the ladies 
 in London. Smith was laughing heartily 
 there are few more hearty laughers than Albert, 
 who is a dashing fellow, and good looking with- 
 all. By the way, this mention of the mam- 
 moth horse reminds us of a rather good story, 
 which will do to stand in the same column with 
 that of Mr. Barnum's Joyce Heth, an old 
 negress, who the " first showman in the workF' 
 passed off as Washington's horse, and the 
 far-famed woolly horse of the same ingenious 
 gentleman. 
 
 There happened, at the time we refer to, to 
 be in the city of London a singular being, 
 known as Harv^ey Leech, or, as he called him- 
 self, Signor Hervio Norno. He was malformed, 
 having the head, trunk, and upper extremities 
 of a large powerful man, but only about three 
 or four inches of legs. This man played apes 
 and gnome flies at the Adelphi and other 
 theatres ; but Mr. Barnura secretly got hold of 
 him, and in due time the metropolis was asto- 
 nished by the information that a new and non- 
 descript species of animal had been captured 
 
ALBERT SMITH. HOI 
 
 somevvbere abroad, and was now to be seen at 
 the EL'}'ptiaii Hall. On huge bills all over 
 London appeared the notice of the exhibition 
 of the " What-is-it?" as it was termed, in the 
 absence of any specific appellation. No one 
 knew better than Barnuni how to " work the 
 dodge," and all the resources at his command 
 were put into requisition to ensure the success 
 of the speculation. A strong iron cage was 
 built in the room of the Egyptian Hall, and be- 
 fore it daily stood crowds, who stared with 
 wonder at the savage-looking monster within, 
 who resembled nothing in the heavens above, 
 or in the earth beneath, or under the water. 
 " What is it T' was asked by every one, and the 
 more curiosity became aroused, the better, of 
 course, was Barnum pleased. 
 
 Now it so happened that, although great 
 secrecy had been observed in the concoction of 
 the " What-is-it r' affair, it somehow or other 
 became known to the proprietor of the Big 
 Horse ; but being one of the " Showman" 
 tribe himself, he kept it " dark.""* Some time 
 afterwards Barnum offended the Lion King by 
 refusing to let Tom Thumb mount the Mam- 
 moth Horse, on the occasion of Carter's benefit ; 
 and the latter, nettled by the denial, determined 
 to have his revenge ; so, one fine morning, when 
 the front of the monster's cage was crowded 
 I 2 
 
202 LIOXS; LIVING AND DEAD. 
 
 with visitors, and when he raved most diaboli- 
 cally, Mr. Carter stepped forth, and boldly of- 
 fered to venture into the den. On hearing 
 this proposition, the " What-is-it V raved more 
 than ever, and the keeper declared that it 
 would be certain death for any one to face him. 
 But the audience loved a " scene ;" and, care- 
 less whether Carter was killed, as a part of the 
 morning's amusement, or not, insisted that the 
 experiment of one who had tamed lions and 
 tigers should be tried. So, Carter, in spite of 
 warnings from the keeper, walked into the 
 cage caught the creature by the head, and, in 
 a moment stripped off his hairy disguise 
 " Ah, Harvey, my boy ! how d'ye do l" said 
 Carter to the now tamed monster, who slunk 
 away. It is needless to add, that the " What- 
 is-it?" appeared no more, and that a good 
 money-making chance was completely "used 
 up and done for." Leech, soon after this affair 
 died, and left his body to Mr. Liston, the sur- 
 geon. It was a fatal legacy ; for Mr. Partridge, 
 the demonstrator of Anatomy, at the London 
 University, whilst dissecting him, pricked his 
 finger with a spicula of bone, which caused his 
 death within forty-eight hours. 
 
 Reader if you will turn out of Tottenham 
 Court- Road you will enter Percy Street, which 
 with Rathbone Place, connects that great tho- 
 
ALBERT SMITH. 203 
 
 roiiglifaro with Oxford Street. Going towards 
 the latter, on the left hand side, you may, if 
 you look for them, observe on a brass plate, the 
 words " Mr. Albert Smith, Dentist." We 
 happened on one occasion to have a carious 
 molar, and residing in Charlotte Street close 
 to Percy Street we rushed distractedly to 
 the nearest operator. We were detained a few 
 minutes in the surgery, and who should enter, 
 wrapped in a flashy dressing gown, with a 
 smoking cap surmounting his long, curly, light 
 hair, and a Meerchaum, almost as big as a 
 bucket, in his hand, but the very gentleman 
 we had before seen on the Mammoth Horse 
 Albert Smith ! Until then we knew not that 
 he drew teeth as well as characters, and as 
 dexterously too. Mr. Smith is the son of a 
 surgeon at Chiswick, and was himself educated 
 for the medical profession. He is a very at- 
 tractive lecturer, and rattles away, much to 
 the delight of crowded audiences, singing his 
 own songs with great eclat, and recounting, in 
 the most pleasant and pungent manner possible, 
 his adventures in search of the picturesque and 
 pecuniary. His personal appearance is very 
 much in his favour, and his drolleries are irre- 
 sistible. What Samuel Lover is to Irish illus- 
 trations, Albert Smith is to the peculiarities of 
 Gent-ism and Cockneydom. 
 
204 LIONS ; LIVING AXD DEAD. 
 
 Of a very different stamp is the literary lec- 
 turer, who we must now introduce to the 
 reader. Excepting, perhaps, in the matter 
 of broad caricature, he has no quality in com- 
 mon with either of them. William Makepeace 
 Thackeray for it is of him we would speak 
 is a deeper thinker, a more acute observer, and 
 a far more felicitous sketcher of character, than 
 either Handy Andy, or Mr. Ledbury ; or 
 rather, than the authors of the adventures of 
 those now universally known individuals. As 
 in the case of Mr, Carlyle we gave some no- 
 tices of his literary career, it may be as well to 
 follow the same course in this sketch of Mr. 
 Thackeray. The following account, which we 
 have every reason to believe to be correct, is 
 derived from a German author, from which we 
 are glad to help our readers to a little know- 
 ledge of this very popular and successful 
 author : 
 
 He was born at Calcutta in the year 1811, 
 and is now consequently forty three years of age ; 
 his father was a high official of the East India 
 Company, which secured him the entree of the 
 best society, and a large income. Our author 
 was born a " gentleman." He went to school 
 in England experienced all the tyranny of 
 a brutal master, and the misery of that system 
 of fagging, a legalized bullying of the little 
 
WILLIAM M. TIIACKKKAV. 205 
 
 boys by the larger, wbich is so repulsive 
 to every noble and decent feel in fj, and which 
 Englishmen so stoutly defend as a process which 
 *' takes the starch out of pride," but which is 
 ultogetlicr too unreasonable not to lose temper 
 about in discussing. Thackeray has revenged 
 iiimself upon this inhuman and disgusting 
 system in his Christmas story of " Dr. Birch 
 and his Young Friends," and he has a general 
 firing at Boarding Schools, in the oponing of 
 *' Vanity Fair," in which he exhorts the reader 
 to trust the promise of a school prospectus no 
 more than he does the praises of an epitaph. 
 He left school for the University at Cambridge, 
 where he studied with Kinglake, the author of 
 l^othen Eliot Warburton, who wrote " The 
 Orescent and the Cross," and was lost with the 
 Amazon, and Richard Monckton IMilnes, a 
 well known London literateur^ a poet, and a 
 biographer of Keats, and a member of Parlia- 
 ment. 
 
 Meanwhile the elder Thackeray died, and 
 the future historian of "Vanity Fair," launched 
 himself into its midst with an annual income 
 of about a thousand pounds. He lived accord- 
 ing to his whims, drew sharp and clever 
 caricatures, smoked, lounged, feasted upon 
 books of every kind, and opened the oyster of 
 the world at leisure. His mother, a -woman of 
 
206 LIONS ; LIVING AND DEAD. 
 
 great beauty, and full of talent and tenderness, 
 whose memory is so filially embalmed in the 
 character of the mother of Arthur Pendennis, 
 married again, about this time, and the young 
 man, always the object of the proudest maternal 
 love, came into possession of his paternal in- 
 heritance. He immediately returned from the 
 continent, where he had been staying a little 
 time, and took up his residence in the Temple. 
 Nascent Jurists and butting Barristers at law, 
 who have completed a full course at Cambridge 
 or Oxford, enjoy the privilege of paying high 
 prices for comfortable quarters in the Temple, 
 and of eating splendid dinners in its ancient 
 dining room. Here Thackeray entered himself 
 as a student of Jurisprudence, and in the 
 character of Warrington in "^ Pendennis" he 
 has developed the career of the students, and 
 the varied life of the Temple, in some of the 
 best passages he has ever written. Henry 
 Taylor, the Dramatist, author of Philip Van 
 Artevelde, is among the residents of the Temple, 
 and is mentioned by the German Commentator 
 as the original of a character in Thackeray's 
 Romance. We are at a loss to determine 
 which, for if Warrington be so intended, he 
 seems to us to lose the point. Warrington is 
 a man of power without a career Taylor a 
 man of talent, who has certainly achieved a 
 
WILLIAM M. THACKERAY. 207 
 
 reputation quite equal to his just claims. How- 
 ever, the Temple not only furnished our author 
 characters but also the necessity of drawing 
 them ; for while there, and when scarcely more 
 than twenty-three years old, the youufi; man had 
 ' 'fooled away" his property, and was poor. The 
 davs of smokin;;, louno^inc;, and " loafin;;" were 
 evidently ending, and he betook himself to 
 Paris, conceiving, from his facility in sketching, 
 that he was born for an artist. A brief time 
 among the Parisian ateliers sufficed to remove 
 this idea. But as his step-father at this period 
 established a Journal in London, called " The 
 Constitutional," the artist naturally became its 
 Paris correspondent. Thus, like Dickens, he 
 commenced his literary career as a journalist. 
 In Paris Thackeray met his present wife, an 
 Irish lady of good family, and married her. 
 
 " From this time dates his first purely literary 
 effort the " Yellowplush Papers,""* aftervvards 
 published as " Jeames' Diary"' in which his 
 characteristic tendency is clearly indicated. 
 The step-father's " Constitutional" absorbed 
 most of his property, of course, and failed. The 
 son was obliged to return to England, and to 
 begin work in earnest for himself. He wrote 
 for " Frazer's Magazine,""" and literary reviews 
 for " The Times," in which he ridiculed the 
 early Bulwer style of romance the interesting 
 
208 LIONS ; LIVING A.ND DEAD. 
 
 burglars and romantic murderers. But the 
 public, resolved upon enjoying the fascination 
 of crime sentimentally described, received his 
 strictures coldly. The struggling author turned 
 to the humorous, sketchy style, to win an ear 
 and gain a penny. Literary friends, more 
 fairly favoured than he, opened their purses to 
 him ; but his wife became insane, and is, at 
 this day, the inmate of an asylum. He 
 worked industriously with his pen he wrote 
 the " Great Iloggarty Diamond," " The Snob 
 Papers," the " Irish Sketch Book," " Journey 
 from Cornhill to Cairo," '' Our Street," '^ Re- 
 becca and Rowena," "The Kickleburies on the 
 Rhine," and smaller papers, under the name of 
 Michael Angelo Titmarsh ; and Chambers' 
 Cyclopaedia commended him, before he was so 
 universally known, as " A quiet observer.'' 
 In all these sketches his characteristic power 
 shows itself. The two last were written after 
 the great fame and success of " Vanity Fair," 
 but they are only studies for his large pictures 
 and it may be noted as proof of his genuine 
 genius, that the complete figures are infinitely 
 superior to his designs, and it is in completing 
 the picture from the speech, so that it shall 
 gain a meaning, as well as in elaboration and 
 size, that the true artist is shown. Mr. 
 Thackeray offered the manuscript of " Vanity 
 
WILLIAM M. TIIACKKUAY. 20.0 
 
 Fair" to a nia^iazino. The editor declined it. 
 The author published it, and made his name 
 innnortal. It was followed by " Pendennis,'' 
 a mellower, riper fruit to our fancy, but we 
 have no thought of entering upon the criticism 
 of the author. 
 
 Mr. Thackeray's great success, as a writer, 
 naturally attracted public curiosity towards 
 Lira personally. Like Lover he was fond of 
 illustrating his own works ; and many of tho 
 vignettes and other small illustrations in 
 *' Punch," were and are from his pencil. He 
 also illustrated his " Vanity Fair," " Penden- 
 nis," and other works. But in this department 
 ho does not excel. There is a mannerism in 
 all his efforts which mars their effect footmen 
 with enormous calves club men with big 
 whiskers, and white chopped and staring-eyed 
 awkward women and girls are his staple Sub- 
 jects. His pen is far more felicitous than his 
 pencil. In " Punch " his efforts may generally 
 bo known by a small pair of spectacles draw4i 
 somewhere in the design. A practised eye can 
 easily discern them at a glance, without this 
 private mark. All these accomplishfnents, wo 
 say, rendered the public curious about their 
 possessor; and, accordingly, when it was an- 
 nounced that Mr. Thackeray would, m propria 
 persona, deliver a course of public lectures on 
 
210 LIONS ; LIVING AND DEAD. 
 
 the Wits and Humourists of Queen Anne's 
 time, all the world of literature and fashion 
 was on the qui-vive. Tickets were bought up 
 with amazing rapidity at a high price, and on 
 the day of the first lecture, Willis's Rooms 
 were crowded with as brilliant and select an 
 audience as were ever congregated within these 
 fashionable walls. 
 
 There, on those well-filled and comfortable 
 benches were to be seen the specimens of the 
 " Snobs" whom he had ridiculed the Tuft- 
 hunters, whom he had lashed the Club cele- 
 brities, whom he had satirized and, at the 
 doors, numerous members of the Yellow Plush 
 fraternity, whom he had made immortal 
 Authors Artists Ladies and Lords Jour- 
 nalists and Reviewers Novelists and Poets 
 Idle men about Town and studious Scholars 
 all were there. On a seat in the rear of the 
 audience, was to be seen the future laureate 
 Alfred Tennyson. He looks the poet, with 
 that calm, earnest face, and that abundant hair 
 carelessly tossed about on his finely-shaped 
 head. The author of " Locksey Hall" is the 
 son of the late George Clayton Tennyson, 
 L.L.D., a clergyman of Lincolnshire ; he was 
 educated at a grammar-school in Louth, and 
 afterwards went to Trinity College, Cambridge. 
 Seldom is he seen in public, for, says Mr. 
 
WILLIAM M. THACKERAY. 211 
 
 Home, "avoiding general society, he would 
 prefer sitting up all night talking with a friend, 
 or else * to sit and think close.' Beyond a 
 small circle he is never to be met." Occasion- 
 ally ho may bo seen in Lincoln's Inn Fields, 
 on his way to his friend John Forster, who 
 lives in that locality indeed Tennyson lodges 
 there sometimes himself ; and he may be traced 
 to Cheltenham, the Isle of Wight, Hastings, 
 or other such places. One writer mentions 
 that he may be found " in some country inn, 
 with a foot on each hob of the fire-place, a 
 volume of Greek in one hand, his Meerschaum 
 in the other, so far advanced toward the 
 seventh heaven that he would not thank you 
 to call him back to this nether world." But 
 here he now is in Willis's Rooms, having come 
 forth from his retirement to listen to the out- 
 pourings of his friend and admirer Thackeray. 
 Two or three seats from the first row, sat 
 John Forster, far and away the best dramatic 
 critic of the time. He it was who furnished 
 the theatrical notices to the Examiner, when 
 that journal was in its best days. Forster is a 
 first-rate actor himself, as all admit who had 
 the pleasure of seeing him when performing 
 with the Dickens troupe. He is by no means 
 handsome, but there is a fire and an intelligence 
 in his eye that indicates him to be no ordinary 
 
212 lions; living and dead^ 
 
 man. His life of Goldsmith is a biographical 
 gem, and by far the best which has ever appear- 
 ed of that exquisite poet. 
 
 NearForster sat William Macready, looking 
 very much off, as he does on the stage. There 
 was the same stern look, which appeared to 
 have been branded into his face, the same grim 
 smile playing on his features now and then, as 
 with stately air he recognised, or returned the 
 greeting of a friend, and now that no stage wig 
 covered his head, one might perceive that his 
 hair, short, crisp, curly, and parted almost in 
 the centre of the forehead, was thickly streaked 
 with silver hairs. Yet spite of these tell tales 
 Macready looks younger than he really is. 
 'Many are the portraits of him, but the best by 
 far is the oval one by Thorburn, and he thinks 
 so too, for he, himself, a few years ago said as 
 much to me at Philadelphia. Since then the 
 great tragedian has left the stage which cannot 
 now boast of his equal. Unquestionably, he 
 was the greatest actor of modern times had 
 Booth taken care of himself, he mi^ht have 
 been a fearful rival but that once fine tragedian, 
 who ought to have caught Kean's falling man- 
 tle, flung avvay his opportunities, and expatriated 
 himself. We saw^ Booth, not many months 
 since he was performing at the theatre in New 
 
WILLIAM M. THACKERAY. 213' 
 
 York but ho was, thou<:li still vi/];orou8, the 
 Diere wreck of what ho had been. 
 
 Amon<T the audience too, was Robert Brown- 
 ing and his future wife Elizabeth H. Barrett. 
 Browning, and the lady especially, were 
 objects of groat curiosity, for rumour even then 
 began to predict the possible pairing of these 
 birds of song. Browning was quite a young 
 man his profile was very striking, more so 
 than the full face which appeared somewhat 
 tame in comparison. His eyebrows were dark 
 and well defined the hair luxuriant, curly, and 
 black the eyes black and piercing the nose 
 aquiline, and the mouth and chin extremely 
 well shaped. Altogether Browning was a good 
 looking fellow Miss Barrett was a slight, deli- 
 cate, interesting looking little creature, who he 
 never would have dreamed, while looking at her, 
 was the author of the splendid poems which 
 bear her name, and the translatress of the Pro- 
 metheus -^schyles. Her face, delicately pale, 
 enhanced the brightness of her large soft eyes 
 which were veiled by long, drooping lashes, and 
 her cheeks were half concealed by the clusters 
 of dark curls. There was an expression of 
 settled sadness on her countenance and this 
 was little to be wondered at, for hers had been 
 a life of trial. Some few years before, she had 
 broken a blood-vessel, and was ordered to the 
 
214 lions; living and dead. 
 
 Southern Coast of England to Torquay, there 
 a sad tragedy occurred which cast its dark influ- 
 ence over her fortune. She had been nearly a 
 twelve-month at Torquay, and had derived 
 much benefit from the sea-breeze. " One fine 
 summer's morning,"" says Miss Mitford, who first 
 gave to the world the story, " her favourite 
 brother, together with two other fine young 
 men, his friends, embarked on board a small 
 sailing vessel, for a trip of a few hours. Ex- 
 cellent sailors, all, and familiar with the coast, 
 they sent back the boatman, and undertook 
 themselves, the management of the little craft. 
 Danger was not dreamt of by any one ; after 
 the catastrophe no one could derive the cause, 
 but in a few moments after their embarkation, 
 and in sight of their very windows, just as they 
 were crossing the bar, the boat went down, and 
 all who were in her perished, even the bodies 
 were never found." This tragedy nearly 
 killed Elizabeth Barrett. She was utterly pros- 
 trated by the horror and the grief, and by a 
 natural but most unjust feeling, that she her- 
 self had been in some sort the cause of this 
 great misery. It was not until the following 
 year that she could be removed in an enclosed 
 carriage, and by journeys of twenty miles a day, 
 to her afflicted family, and her London home. 
 Another eminent literary^ lady was among 
 
WILLIAM M. THACKERAY. 215 
 
 the attractions. Mrs. Norton she was still 
 gloriously beautiful, but had become somewhat 
 stout. The " undying one"'"* was the very op- 
 posite of Miss Barrett in external appearance, 
 but both were great poetesses, and so far as men- 
 tal endowments were concerned, had much in 
 common. 
 
 That most amiable of men, Sergeant, now 
 Judge Talfourd, and a Knight into the bargain, 
 was one of the audience, his eyes beaming with 
 genius, and his somewhat swarthy fiice, radiant 
 with good humour. Old Chaucer might have 
 had such a one in his minds eye when he drew 
 the portrait of 
 
 " A Serjeant of the Lawe, ware and wise, 
 That often hadde ybeu at the paruis. 
 There was also, full riche of excellence. 
 Discrete he was, and of gret reverence ! 
 He seemed swiche, his wonders were so wise." 
 
 But the author of '' Ion" and of the masterly 
 sketch of the life of his friend Charles Lamb, 
 is too generally known to need a minute 
 description here. 
 
 It is time to turn from the audience to the 
 Lecturer. 
 
 On Mr. Thackeray ""s appearance, he was very 
 warmly greeted, not boisterously, of course, for 
 the audience were by far too refined to greet 
 
216 lions; living and dead. 
 
 him with a noisy welcome. He was tall, 
 plainly dressed, and looked confident. In the 
 clever vignette to the preface to the tenth 
 volume of Punch by Doyle, there is a capital 
 likeness of the author of " Vanity Fair," 
 spectacles and all, which must be so universally 
 circulated that the reader has only to refer 
 thereto, and he will save me " the trouble of a 
 pen-and-ink description. On commencing, 
 Mr. Thackeray appeared somewhat embarrassed 
 by the novelty of his position, and his voice 
 was so indistinct, that those in the far off parts 
 of the rooms heard him with considerable diffi- 
 culty. This, however, he corrected in his 
 second discourse which was everything that 
 could be desired. 
 
 These lectures were admirable and evinced 
 that the subject was a most congenial one with 
 the lecturer ; keen satire, judicious criticism, 
 brilliant sketches of personal history, and 
 graphic notices of contemporary literature fol- 
 lowed each other in rapid succession, completely 
 entrancing the attention and frequently eliciting 
 the marked admiration of the audience. Great 
 things were expected from the lecturer, and 
 he did not disappoint those expectations. 
 Perhaps the characters of Steele, Swift, Addison, 
 Congreve, and others, were never so accurately 
 analysed before, or their works more delicately 
 
WILLIAM M. THACKERAY. 217 
 
 dissected, the discourse on Swift especially was 
 a masterpiece, dillicult as the subject con- 
 fessedly was with which he had to deal, or to 
 say that English history supplies no narrative 
 more singular and original than the career of 
 Jonathan Swift, is to assert little. We doubt 
 whether the histories of the world can furnish 
 for example and instruction, for wonder and 
 pity, for admiration and scorn, for approval and 
 condemnation, specimens of humanity at once 
 so illustrious and so small. Before the eyes of 
 his contemporaries Swift stood a living enigma. 
 To posterity he must continue for ever a dis- 
 tressing puzzle. One hypothesis, and one alone 
 helps to us account for a whole life of anomaly, 
 but not to clear up the mystery in w^hich it is 
 shrouded. From the beginning to the end of 
 his days Swift was more or less mad. 
 
 In Mr. Thackeray's lecture on this strange 
 being, we were treated to a splendid delineation 
 of his course and character. He showed us 
 the light of intelligence shining on his brow, so 
 that we might note qualities that would become 
 an angel. He enabled us to survey him under 
 the dark cloud, and every feature was distorted 
 into that of a fiend. Informing us what he 
 was, he described to us what he was not. His 
 virtues were exaggerated into vices, and his 
 vices were not without the savour of virtue. 
 
 K 
 
218 lions; living and dead. 
 
 The orip;inality of his writings, we were told, 
 were of a piece with the singularity of his 
 character. He copied no man who preceded 
 him: he had not been successfully imitated by 
 any one who had followed him. The composi- 
 tions of Swift revealed the brilliance of sharpen- 
 ed wit, yet it was recorded of the man, that he 
 was never known to laugh. His friendships 
 were strong, and his antipathies vehement and 
 unrelenting, yet he illustrated his friendship by 
 soundly abusing his familiars, and expressed 
 hatred by bantering his foes. He was economi- 
 cal and saving to a fault, yet he made sacrifices 
 to the indigent and poor sternly denied to him- 
 self; he could begrudge the food and wine con- 
 sumed by a guest, yet throughout his life refuse 
 to derive the smallest pecuniary advantage from 
 his published works ; and at his death bequeath 
 the whole of his fortune to a charitable institu- 
 tion. He was eager for reward, yet he refused 
 payment with disdain. None knew better than 
 he the stinging force of a successful lampoon, 
 yet such missiles were hurled by thousands at 
 his head, without in any way disturbing his 
 bodily tranquillity. There was, in truth, no 
 end of such materials. 
 
 But it would be absolutely impossible to 
 follow Mr. Thackeray through his admirable 
 delineations of the character and genius of these 
 
WILLIAM M, THACKERAY. 219 
 
 wits of an age ^ono by. It is to be hoped that 
 the lectures will bo published, for hitherto only 
 copious extracts have appeared in the prin- 
 cipal journals. Ho has declined the numerous 
 invitations to repeat them in the provinces, 
 ])robably because his connection with periodical 
 literature demands his constant presence in 
 the metropolis. 
 
 Mr. Thackeray is, it is rumoured, now en- 
 gaged on a novel, of which the scene is laid 
 among the persons and times treated of in his 
 lectures. A capital field for his peculiar talents. 
 It was to have appeared at Christmas last, but 
 we hear it is not as yet half completed. Seldom 
 has a work of fiction been more anxiously looked 
 for, as its appearance will decide the question 
 as to whether novel writing is Thackeray's /<?Htf. 
 
220 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 WILLIAM AND MARY HOWITT GREIHGRATH AND 
 
 MISS BREMER. 
 
 About a month ago I was spending an evening 
 with some very agreeable friends, at Niagara, 
 when the conversation turned upon poetry and 
 poets. Among other writers the names of 
 William and Mary Howitt w^ere mentioned, 
 as brother and sister. 
 
 '' Pardon me," I remarked ; " you are quite 
 wrong ; the lady and gentleman you speak of 
 are husband and wife, as much so as that royal 
 pair of old, referred to in the couplet 
 
 "Kiud and willing, 
 Like "William and Nancy on a shilling." 
 
 ^' I always thought," said one present, " that 
 they were a brother and a sister a poetical 
 trio." 
 
 " There are two brothers William and 
 Richard," I said, " and both have written 
 books Richard, however, has done compara- 
 
WILLIAM AND MARY IIOWITT. 221 
 
 lively little ho is scarcely known ; his last 
 production was, I believe, something about 
 Australia." 
 
 And this idea that William and Mary Howitt 
 are one father's and mother's children, is, I 
 find, an extremely common one, especially in 
 the country where I pen these pages. Before, 
 therefore, I give a sketch of the personal ap- 
 pearances of these well-known authors, I fancy 
 it may be as well to give a brief notice of their 
 literary careers, for the main features of which 
 I am indebted to Mr. Hartwell Home's " New 
 Spirit of the Age." 
 
 William Howitt was born in Derbyshire, 
 where for many generations the family had been 
 considerable landed proprietors. According to 
 a memoir of their early days, now out of print, 
 the Howitts appear to have been of the old 
 school of country squires, who led a jolly care- 
 less life hunting, shooting, feasting, and 
 leaving their estate to the care of itself as it 
 might, and which, of course, fell into a steady 
 consumption. Wansley Hall and its surround- 
 ing demesne followed ; the rectory of Eastwood, 
 which had been a comfortable berth for the 
 youngest son, was the last portion of the dowry 
 of one of the wives of the Howitts, which lin- 
 gered in the family, and that was eventually 
 
222 LIONS ; LIVING AND DEAD. 
 
 sold to the Plumptre family, in which it yet 
 remains. 
 
 The demesne of one heiress dissipated, there 
 was not wanting another with which to repair 
 the waste with her gold. The great-grand- 
 father of our authors married the daughter and 
 sole heiress of a gentleman of Nottingham named 
 Middleton, with whom he received a large sum 
 of money. This was soon spent, and so much 
 was the lady's father exasperated at the hope- 
 less waste of his son-in-law, that he cut off his 
 own daughter with a shilling, and left the 
 estate to an adopted son. The disinherited 
 man did not however learn wisdom from this 
 lesson, unless he considered it wisdom. He 
 adhered stoutly to the hereditary habits and 
 maxims of his ancestors ; and a wealthy old 
 aunt of his, residing at Derby, getting a sus- 
 picion that he only waited her death to squander 
 her hoard too, adopted the stratagem of send- 
 ing a messenger to Heavor, to announce to him 
 the melancholy intelligence of her decease. 
 The result justified her fears. The jolly squire 
 liberally rewarded the messenger, and setting 
 the village-bells a-ringing, began his journey- 
 towards Derby, to take possession. To his 
 great consternation and chagrin, however, in- 
 stead of finding the lady dead, he found her 
 very much alive indeed, and ready to receive 
 
WILLIAM AND MARY HOWITT. 223 
 
 him, with the emphatic announcement that she 
 had followed the example of his father-in-law, 
 and struck him out of her will altogether. She 
 faithfully kept her word. The only legacy she 
 left to this jovial spendthrift was his great two- 
 handled breakfast pot, out of which he con- 
 sumed every morning as much toast and ale as 
 would have " filled'' a baron of the fourteenth 
 century. 
 
 The old gentleman seems not only to have 
 been of almost reckless, but also of a most un- 
 resentful disposition. He appears to have con- 
 tinued a familiar intercourse with the gentle- 
 man who superseded him in the estate, who 
 likewise maintained towards him a conduct 
 that was very honourable. The disinherited 
 squire was one of the Squire Western School, 
 and spent the remainder of his life in a manner 
 peculiarly characteristic of the times. He and 
 another dilapidated old gentleman of the name 
 of Johnson, used to proceed from house to 
 house among their friends, till probably they 
 had scarcely a home of their own, carousing 
 and drinking ."jolly good ale and old." They 
 sojourned a long time at one of these places, 
 regularly going out with the greyhounds in the 
 morning, or if in summer a fishing, and ca- 
 rousing in the evenings, till one day the butler 
 gave them a hint by announcing the *' barrel 
 
224 LIONS ; LIVING AND DEAD 
 
 was out/' On this they proceeded to Lord 
 Middleton's, at Wollerton, and after a similar 
 career and a similar carousing, to the house 
 of a gentleman in Lincolnshire. The building 
 of Wollerton Hall, it is said, had considerably 
 impoverished the Middleton family ; but Lord 
 Middleton was unmarried, and as the Lincoln- 
 shire gentleman had an only daughter and a 
 splendid fortune, family tradition says, that by 
 extolling the parties to each other a match was 
 brought about by these old gentlemen, much 
 to the satisfaction of both sides, and they wer 
 made free of *the greyhounds and the cellar foF 
 the remainder of their lives. 
 
 The son of this spendthrift, instead of being 
 possessor of an estate, became a manager of a 
 part of it for the fortunate proprietor ; there 
 was, however, a friendly feeling always kept 
 up between the new proprietor and the Howitts, 
 and by this means the father of our author, 
 who was a man of a different stamp from his 
 progenitors, was enabled in some degree to 
 restore the fortunes of the family, and to esta- 
 blish a handsome property. Miss Tatum, 
 whom he married, was a member of the Society 
 of Friends, as her ancestors had been from the 
 commencement of the Society; and Mr. Thomas 
 Howitt, previous to the marriage, as was re- 
 
WILLIAM AND MARY IIOWITT. 225 
 
 quired by tbe rulers of the Friends, entered 
 the Society, and has always continued in it. 
 
 William Howitt, the subject of the present 
 biographical sketch, is one of six brothers. He 
 was educated at different schools of the Friends, 
 but he says he was much more indebted to a 
 steady practice of self-instruction than to any 
 school or teacher whatever. He early showed 
 a predilection for poetry, and, in a periodical of 
 that day, called " Literary Recreations," a 
 copy of some " verses on Spring," may be 
 found, stated to be " by William Howitt, a 
 boy thirteen years of age." During the time 
 that he was not at school, he was accustomed, 
 with his eldest brother, to stroll all over the 
 country, shooting, coursing and fishing, with 
 an indefatigable zeal which would have de- 
 lighted any of the Nimrods from whom he was 
 descended. As a boy he had been an eager 
 birds- nester, and these pursuits, together with 
 a strong practical temperament and a keen 
 perception of the beauties of Nature, made him 
 famihar with all the haunts, recesses, produc- 
 tions, and creatures of the country. In this 
 manner the greatest portion of his early life 
 was spent. After he arrived at manhood, how- 
 ever, those country pleasures were blended with 
 an active study of chemistry, botany, natural 
 and moral philosophy, and of the works of the 
 K 2 
 
226 LIONS ; LIVING AND DEAD. 
 
 best writers of Italy, France and his own 
 country. General literature and poetry soon 
 drew his attention more forcibly, and his mar- 
 riage in his twenty-eighth year, no doubt na- 
 turally contributed to strengthen this tendency. 
 The lady of his choice was Miss Mary Botham, 
 of Uttoxeter in Staffordshire, also a member 
 of the Society of Friends, and now familiar to 
 the public as Mary Howitt. 
 
 Mary Howitt is, by her mother's side, di- 
 rectly descended from Mr. William Wood, the 
 Irish patentee, about whose half-pence. Minted 
 under a contract from the. Government of 
 George II., Dean Swift raised such a dis- 
 turbance with his " Drapier's Letters," suc- 
 cessfully preventing the issue of the coinage, 
 and saddling Mr. Wood with a loss of .^60,000, 
 Sir Robert Walpole, the minister, resisting all 
 recompense for his loss, although Sir Isaac 
 Newton, who was appointed to assay the coin- 
 age, pronounced it better than the contract 
 required, and Mr. Wood, of course, justly 
 entitled to remuneration. Sir Charles Wood, 
 the grandfather of Mrs. Howitt, and who be- 
 came assay-master in Jamaica, was the first 
 who introduced platina into Europe. 
 
 After Mr. Hewitt's marriage, he resided 
 about a year in Staffordshire ; and in J 823, 
 Mrs. Howitt and himself published, jointly. 
 
WILLIAM AND MAUY IIOWITT. 227 
 
 "The Forest Minstrel/' a volume of poetry. 
 It was well received ; and after this, the 
 husband and wife, excited by the ballad poetry 
 and legends of Scotland, undertook a pedestrian 
 tour in that country. In this ramble, after 
 landing at Dumbarton, they went on over 
 mountain and moorland, wherever they pro- 
 posed to go, for one thousand miles, walking 
 more than five hundred of it. Mrs. Howitt 
 performing the journey without fatigue. They 
 crossed Ben Lomond without a guide, and after 
 enjoying the most magnificent spectacle of the 
 clouds alternately shrouding and breaking away 
 from the chaos of mountains around them, 
 were enveloped by a dense cloud, and only able 
 to eflTect their descent with great difficulty, and 
 with considerable hazard. They visited Loch 
 Katrine, Stirling, Edinburgh, and all the beau- 
 tiful scenery for many miles round it ; traversed 
 Fifeshire, and then taking Abbotsford in their 
 route, walked through the more southern parts, 
 viaitm^ many places interesting for their histo- 
 rical or poetical associations; on to Gretna 
 Oreen, where all the villagers turned out, brim- 
 ful of mirth, supposing they were come there 
 to be married, especially as they entered the 
 public-house where such matches are completed, 
 and engaged the landlord to put them on their 
 way to Carlisle. They returned by way of the 
 
228 LIONS ; LIVING AND DEAD. 
 
 English Lakes, having, as they have frequently 
 been heard to declare, enjoyed the most de- 
 lightful journey imaginable. 
 
 Soon after their return, they settled in 
 Nottingham. Mr. Howitt, though actively 
 engaged in business, still devoting his leisure 
 to literary pursuits. Here they soon published 
 another joint volume of poems " The Desola- 
 tion of Ezam." The attention which those 
 two volumes excited, brought many applica- 
 tions from the editors of Annuals and Maga- 
 zines, and both Mr. and Mrs. Howitt, for some 
 years, contributed a great variety of articles to 
 these publications. 
 
 After publishing a number of works in Eng- 
 land, Mr. and Mrs. Howitt quitted England 
 for a sojourn in Germany, where their attention 
 was turned to the language and literature of 
 the north of Europe. They studied the Swedish 
 language, and the first results have been the 
 introduction of the prose tales of Miss Bremer. 
 
 At the period of the visit to which I am 
 about to refer, William Howitt was engaged 
 in writing his " Homes and Haunts of the 
 Poets," and the circumstance of my having 
 written a biography of one of the subjects of 
 his work led to an acquaintance, a brief one it 
 is true, and suddenly enough terminated, but 
 which lasted long enough to enable me to give 
 
WILLIAM AND MARY IIOWITT. 229 
 
 my readers some idea of the personalities of 
 these literary ** Friends." 
 
 Accompanied by a gentleman and his wife, 
 who were on intimate terms with the Howitts, 
 and who proposed to introduce mo to them, at 
 their residence, we started, one fine Sunday 
 
 afternoon, from R L Street, and by 
 
 the aid of one of those convenient abominations 
 omnibuses, rapidly proojressed through that 
 district known as " the City." But how dif- 
 ferently now appeared the locality from what it 
 had been but a few hours previously. Closed 
 were the gates of that great auriferous hive 
 the Bank. No more from and into the ancient 
 street of the Lombards poured streams of 
 anxious looking men. The Mansion-house 
 seemed deserted, and the broad flagged space in 
 front of the Royal Exchange w^as merely dotted 
 here and there with pedestrians. Church bells 
 sounded from a hundred steeples as we quitted 
 the vehicles, and plunged into the seclusion of 
 Threadneedle-street. It was as if a plague 
 reigned, for in that usually crowded thorough- 
 fare there was scarcely, at door, window, or 
 elsewhere, a human face to be seen. 
 
 1 have been in many dull places in my time, 
 but the gloom of London, on a fine Sunday 
 afternoon, I mean in the business parts of "the 
 City," is the saddest that I have ever expe- 
 
230 lions; living and dead. 
 
 rieuced. There is no solitude in the world like 
 it. For days and weeks together I have dwelt 
 in the depths of primeval forests, scores of 
 miles away from human habitation, and have 
 stood alone on the mighty prairies of the 
 Western World, but never have I felt so 
 utterly alone, and " cut off from the sympathies 
 of life," as when sometimes wandering through 
 that labyrinth of streets in the neighbourhood of 
 the Bank of England on the Sabbath. Through 
 Threadneedle-street, then, we tooV our way, 
 and then, suddenly emerging into Bishopsgate- 
 street, stopped at the well-known " Flower 
 Pot," and entered a Clapham omnibus. Again 
 were we hedged in the crowded vehicle, and 
 amid the odour of peppermint, onions, and 
 rum, and the rattling of window glasses, and 
 the cryings of gaudily dressed " babbies," we 
 passed through Shoreditch all alive with 
 East-enders. Leaving Shoreditch church be- 
 hind us, we drove along the Hackney-road 
 until we reached Lower Clapham, and there we 
 stopped. 
 
 " The Elms," sung out the conductor of the 
 vehicle, for such was the residence of the 
 Hewitts, at which we had directed him to set 
 us down. It was, I saw, on alighting, a large 
 brick-fronted house, a little removed from the 
 road-side ; some tall trees grew before it, giving 
 
WILLIAM AND MARY IIOWITT, 231 
 
 it a certain air of retirement which suited the 
 character of its inhabitants. We all three 
 made for the door, and rang the bell. 
 
 It was opened by a servant, answering 
 very well to the idea of a "neat-handed 
 Phyllis."' Our enquiry respecting Mr. and 
 Mrs. Howitts"* being at home, was answered in 
 the affirmative, and we were ushered into a 
 large room, upstairs, the window of which 
 looked into the garden behind. It was a plea- 
 sant chamber, and adorned with portraits, 
 busts, pictures, and flowers, all betokening that 
 its arrangements were superintended by the 
 eye and hand of taste. Nor was the attraction 
 of music wanting, for as the window was open 
 to admit the balmy air of that Sabbath-day, 
 the song of a bird without filled the chamber 
 with melody. Books lay scattered here and 
 there, but, as is often the case with bookish 
 people's houses, there was no litter, no care- 
 lessness apparent ; every thing was in its place, 
 and the most perfect order seemed to reign 
 everywhere. 
 
 We had not long been sitting, when the 
 door opened, and a lady made her appearance. 
 A few days before I had seen, at the exhibition 
 of the Royal Academy, a portrait of Mrs. 
 Howitt, and, though it was not, I now saw, a 
 very successful hit of the artist, yet it was 
 
232 LIONS ; LIVING AND DEAD. 
 
 sufficiently like the original to enable me to 
 recognise in the lady entering, the well-known 
 poetess. She was about the medium height, 
 of a good figure and graceful manners. Her 
 face was indicative of amiability, rather than 
 of powerful intellect ; perhaps the most appro- 
 priate term by which to describe it would be 
 " pleasing." Over her brown hair, which was 
 simply parted on her white broad forehead, was 
 a cap, not such as " Friends" usually wear, but 
 slightly adorned with coloured ribbons. Indeed, 
 both Mr. and Mrs. Howitt long ago eschewed 
 the frightfully distinctive badges of their sect. 
 The lady's eyes were large, blue, and liquid ; 
 nose somewhat large, and the mouth sweet in 
 its expression, but slightly disfigured, so far as 
 the upper lip was concerned, by two projecting 
 upper front teeth. She was attired in a plain 
 lavender-coloured silk gown, the fashion of 
 which I will not attempt to describe. 
 
 We had a very charming conversation. I 
 had recently returned from an extended tour in 
 America, and Mrs. Howitt was very minute 
 in her enquiries respecting that country. I 
 heard afterwards, that it was, about that time, 
 the intention of Mr. Howitt and family to 
 emigrate to Ohio ; an intention now abandoned. 
 She said that both herself and Mr. Howitt 
 were much engaged in translating Miss Bre- 
 
WILLIAM AND MAttY IIOWITT. 233 
 
 mer's works, and that they were " dreadfully 
 busy people/' An assertion I could readily 
 believe, as at that time they were continually 
 producing versions of Hans Christian Anderson 
 and Miss Bremer's novels ; besides occasional 
 articles in the " People's Journal," which, in 
 conjunction with Mr. Saunders, they edited, 
 until a quarrel arose between them and the 
 latter gentleman, in which the Howitts had 
 the worst of it, and which upset the concern. 
 
 While we were speaking, Mr. Howitt joined 
 us. He, too, I had seen on canvas at the Royal 
 Academy. He was short, stout, very upright, 
 and brusque in his manner. There was a sort 
 of a " rm-William-Howitt" air about him. 
 His head was round, partially bald, and what 
 hair was left was short and gray. His eyes were 
 blue and keen, his nose short, and his mouth 
 compressed. His air altogether was that of a 
 man who had not formed a low estimate of 
 himself. When ho spoke his tones were quick, 
 and his voice occasionally gruff. A friend who 
 knew him well had described him altogether 
 as " short and snappish." 1 think, from what 
 I know of the gentleman since, that my ac- 
 quaintance was about correct. 
 
 I must confess that I was somewhat sur- 
 prised ; for, from his everlasting preaching 
 about the good of the people, I had fancied 
 
2S4 LIONS ; LIVING AND DEAD. 
 
 something like geniality, or, at least, apparent 
 good nature in his manner. There was, how- 
 ever, nothing of the sort. Alas ! it is all very 
 well to profess to have the cause of the masses 
 at heart it pays sometimes; but I question 
 whether one in a thousand of the writers and 
 talkers for the good of the poor care a single 
 fig for them. Look at Feargus O'Connor, for 
 instance, whose present insanity is, to our mind, 
 a just judgment on him. Only last week I 
 saw him, a gibbering lunatic, in the streets of 
 New York, and felt that the many of his so 
 called " dear children," whom he had deluded 
 to their ruin at Snigg's End, and other places, 
 were now amply avenged. Words cost nothing. 
 Henry Mackenzie, the author of the " Man of 
 Feeling," was at times so cruel that his wife 
 often said to him, " Oh, Henry, Henry, you 
 put all your feelings on paper." There are 
 many of the praters about the rights of the 
 " People" many of their mercenary advocates 
 to whom the same remark might be applied. 
 Presently a young lady joined us. She was 
 pretty, interesting, and clever. This was Miss 
 Anne Savage Howit, Mrs. Howitt's eldest 
 daughter. She is a very accomplished artist, 
 and illustrates some of her parents' books. The 
 vignettes to the " Chapter on Chatterton," in 
 he " Homes and Haunts of the Poets,'' are, I 
 
WILLIAM AND MARY HOW ITT. 235 
 
 know, from her pencil, as I was present in the 
 muniment room of Redcliff Church when she 
 sketched it, and in the transept of the same 
 building when she was there similarly em- 
 ployed. 
 
 Several other fine and very interesting chil- 
 dren clustered round the tea-table, but the most 
 entertaining there was the motherof Mrs. Howitt 
 ^a very venerable old lady, but full of life and 
 energy. She appeared to be idolised by the 
 youngsters, as there she sat in an old-fashioned, 
 high-backed chair, looking, in the twilight that 
 now shaded the tea-room, like one of the an- 
 cient ladies in a picture of General Dow or 
 Tenier^s. 
 
 In consequence of the rupture between the 
 Howitts"* and Mr. Saunders, ^Ir. Hewitt's name 
 appeared in the list of bankrupts, and he and 
 his family removed from Clapham to somewhere 
 in the neighbourhood of the Regent's Park, where 
 they now reside. Into the particulars of that 
 quarrel it is not necessary to enter here. 
 Enough to say that it did not tend to increase 
 the respectability of some of the parties princi- 
 pally concerned. Douglas Jerrold refused to 
 contribute to Mr. Hewitt's periodical, and stig- 
 matised the affair as one of those quarrels which 
 were the disgrace of literature and literary men. 
 Parties not immediately connected with the 
 
236 Lioxs ; living and dead. 
 
 work, of whom the writer was one, were dragged 
 into the controversy, and persecuted, privately 
 and publicly, with unrelenting bitterness, for 
 daring to tell the truth. The result has been 
 that certain persons who once stood high in 
 the lists of litterateurs are now tatooed, and 
 surv^eyed with dislike, if not with suspicion. 
 
 Intimately connected as they were with Ger- 
 man and Swedish translations, it is not sur 
 prising, that at the house of the Howitt's should 
 often be met with, literary emigrants from those 
 regions. From the letter of an American lite- 
 rary friend, lately deceased, and which now 
 lies before me, I take the liberty of giving the 
 following description of two of these strangers, 
 whose names must be familiar with every book- 
 reader of the present day : 
 
 " Last evening I spent very pleasantly with 
 the Howitts, at Lower Olapham. Some notable 
 persons were there, among them the Hutchin- 
 son family, and Elihu Burritt. On a former 
 occasion I had met there Freigrath, the Ger- 
 man poet, and author of the celebrated " Lion's 
 Ride," and Frederika Bremer, the Swedish 
 novelist. As I know you are fond of gossip of 
 this kind, I will endeavour to give you some 
 description of these noticeables. I need say 
 nothing of the Hutchinsons, as you know them 
 well, and besides, they have been described by 
 
MISS fitlEMR. 287 
 
 Miss Martineau so admirably in the " People**! 
 Journal,''"' that I would not attempt to follow 
 in her footsteps. Now for Fredcrika Bremer. 
 She is rather under the medium height. Many 
 persons think her handsome, but I am by no 
 means one of the number. When I entered 
 the parlour of the H.'s I saw, sitting on a low 
 stool near the fireside, a plainly attired female, 
 with a foreign air, and dressed rather peculiarly. 
 Her features were all cast in large moulds. 
 Her eyes were large and full. The forehead 
 was good, and from its summit dark hair was 
 combed back. On the side of the brow and 
 cheeks it lay in flat bands. Over her hair she 
 wore some gauze drapery, bordered with lace, 
 which was confined beneath her chin with 
 broad pearl-coloured ribbons. Her nose was 
 thick and large at its end, the cheeks full, and 
 the mouth large, the lips being far too thick. 
 It was an intelligent face withal, and a pleasant 
 smile played, unconsciously, as it seemed, upon 
 it. I should not, however, have taken it as 
 belonging to a woman of genius, as many people 
 declare she is. 
 
 Of the personal history of Miss Bremer, she 
 has herself at different times, given some slight 
 sketches. 
 
 She was born in Finland, and in her fourth 
 year, removed with her family to Sweden, 
 
2SH LIONS ; LIVING AND DEAi. 
 
 where her father became a landed proprietor, 
 residing on his estates in the summer, and 
 removing to Stockholm in the winter. She 
 describes the covered carriage that travelled 
 every winter from the country-house to the 
 residence in the capital, and every spring 
 returned to the country ; and the young 
 daughters who played sonatas, sung ballads, 
 drew in black chalk, and looked with longing 
 to the future, in the hope of seeing and perform- 
 ing wonders. Of herself she says, that her first 
 and greatest love was for her native country, 
 and that this expressed itself in her early years 
 in many extraordinary ways. She adds, in ad- 
 dressing some American friends, " Happy are 
 they who have a noble fatherland, to whose life 
 and history they can look up with admiration 
 and joy. They do not live insulated upon the 
 earth. A mighty genius leads and animates 
 them. Their little life has a greater one with 
 which to unite itself, and for which to live. 
 
 " I have more than once heard you esteem 
 yourself fortunate in being born a citizen of the 
 North American republic. I have listened to 
 your enthusiastic words respecting that empire, 
 founded so unlike all others, not by the 
 powers of war, but by those of peace ; its wealth 
 and greatness, acquired by bloodless victories ; 
 its efforts to become a great and powerful com- 
 
MISS BREMER. 239 
 
 munity in a Christian meaning, by raising every 
 one to an equal degree of enlightenment and 
 equal rights, efforts which now so powerfully 
 attract the eye of Europe and America, and I 
 have understood your love. Will you also be 
 able to understand mine ? It belongs exclusive- 
 ly to a poor country, an inconsiderable people, 
 nurtured in necessity and warlike deeds, but 
 under whoso blood-stained laurels there dwells a 
 spirit, powerful and profound as their ancient 
 mythology. This is now no more, or lives but as 
 a remembrance in the breasts of our people, or as 
 an echo in our valleys ; corn grows in our fields, 
 and the Linnrea blooms in our woods, protected 
 by many years of peace. Travellers who come 
 to Sweden from more populous countries ex- 
 claim, ' How still ; how silent and lifeless !' 
 Has that life, then, formerly so powerful, be- 
 come extinct ? No ; but it has retired into si- 
 lence. And in the silence of nature, in Sweden, 
 where primeval mountains, covered with pine 
 forests, surround deep, tranquil lakes, the con- 
 templative spirit lives more profoundly than 
 elsewhere ; the listening ear can, better than 
 amid the tumults of the world, become acquaint- 
 ed with the secrets of nature and the human 
 heart, and comprehend the revelations of a life 
 peculiar to that people, beside whose cradle the 
 prophetess Valasang her wonderful song of the 
 
240 LIONS ; LIVING AND DEAD. 
 
 origin, destruction, and regeneration of all things. 
 " It was a presentiment of this life, and sym- 
 pathy with it, which already in the days of my 
 childhood worked upon my heart, and made me 
 shed tears of ardent longing to be able to do 
 something for that beloved country; in some 
 way to serve it and contribute to its honour, 
 which induced me to form the most extraordi- 
 nary and impracticable projects for this purpose, 
 and made me sometimes behave myself in a 
 manner which caused reasonable people to won- 
 der whether I was quite in my senses. 
 
 " Now, when I better understand what I 
 then blindly loved ; now, when approaching the 
 autumn of my life, I looked back to its early spring, 
 I also knew the meaning of its longings and its 
 sufferings, for, if I can now rejoice at serving 
 my country as a little ligbt, making some por- 
 tion of its whole life visible to far distant coun- 
 tries, this is a fruit of my first love ; it is just, 
 then, that it should be also my last." 
 
 Of her deeper spiritual life, she says in another 
 instance, speaking of herself, " If you will look 
 deeper into her soul, you will see how the sad 
 realities of the world gradually spread their 
 dark veil over the brilliant dreams of her youth ; 
 how an early twilight overtakes the wanderer 
 on her path, and with what effort, though in 
 vain, she endeavours to escape from it. The 
 
MISS BUEMF.R. 241 
 
 air is thick as during a hea^y fall of snow, tho 
 darkness increases as the night sets in. And 
 during this deep endless winter night, she hears 
 ounds of lamentation from the cast and from 
 : ho west, from creatures and from plants from an 
 expiring nature and a despairing humanity: 
 and she sees life, with all its beauty, with all 
 its love, with its beating heart, buried alive 
 under a humid layer of ice. The sky is dark 
 and desolate, nowhere a look nowhere a heart. 
 
 " All is dead or dying save suffering. Have 
 you observed the profound significance of the 
 mythologies ? In the beginning, wo see a di- 
 vine principle of light and warmth draw near 
 the cold and mist, and from this union of light 
 and darkness, fire and tears, is born a god ; I 
 believe that something similar takes place with 
 every human being who is born to a deeper life, 
 and something similar, also, happened to her 
 who writes you these lines. 
 
 " If you had seen her some years later, you 
 would have found in her a great change. Her 
 eyes, which tears dimmed for many years, now 
 beam with inexpressible bliss. She has, as it 
 were, risen again to new life. But whence 
 this change? Perchance the dreams of her 
 youth have been realized, and she has become 
 a brave heroine, and enjoyed the triumphs of 
 
242 LIONS ; LIVING AND DEAD. 
 
 beauty, love, and honour. No ; the dreams of 
 childhood have vanished ; youth is past, but 
 she has nevertheless become young again, be- 
 cause in the depths of her soul, over its dark 
 chaos, the words have been spoken, ' Let there 
 be light,' and the light has penetrated the dark- 
 ness, and illumined it, and with her eyes fixed 
 upon that light, she has exclaimed, '0 Death ! 
 where is thy victory V Many a grave has since 
 then opened and robbed her of some of those 
 she most loved on earth. The sting of many a 
 grief has been and is still felt, but her heart 
 still beats tranquilly. Despair is for ever pass- 
 ed, but not so its fruits- For, like those flowers 
 that open only at night, it is only during the 
 midnight hours of severe suffering that the soul 
 of man opens to the light of the eternal stars." 
 The Countess Hahn-Hahn, who visited Miss 
 Bremer at her country residence of Arsta, a 
 few years since, speaks of it as being remarka- 
 ble in an historical point of view. The house 
 is of stone, built during the Thirty Years' War, 
 with large and lofty apartments, overlooking 
 the meadow where Gustavus Adolphus review- 
 ed the army with which he marched into 
 Livonia. It is surrounded with magnificent 
 trees, the dark waters of the Baltic lying in the 
 distance. Here Miss Bremer, with a beloved 
 
FREIHGRATH. 243 
 
 mother and sister, resides for a part of the year. 
 One of these remarks of her, that in c very- 
 thought and act she seems to have but one 
 object that of making hec fellow beings con- 
 tented and happy. She is possessed of an 
 ample fortune, and devotes her income mostly 
 to charitable objects. In a recent severe win- 
 ter, 'when the poor were dying with hunger 
 and cold, hundreds through her means were 
 warmed and fed, who would otherwise have 
 perished. 
 
 In addition to her other accomplishments, 
 Miss Bremer possesses a most delicate musical 
 ear, and plays on the piano with great expres- 
 sion and an exquisite touch, the wild songs of 
 her native land, as well as the more elaborate 
 works of the great masters. She also paints 
 in water-colours, and her album contains finely 
 executed miniatures of most of the remarkable 
 persons she has known. 
 
 " I had," continues my friend, " consi- 
 derable curiosity to see Ferdinand Freihgrath, 
 not so much, perhaps, on poetical as on politi- 
 cal accounts. He had been expelled from his 
 fatherland in consequence of his writings in 
 favour of liberty, and here he was in England, 
 forlorn and destitute. I found him a fine-look- 
 ing fellow, with a most poetical expression of 
 countenance that is, half handsome, half sad , 
 
244 lions; living and dead. 
 
 but perhaps his recent trials might have ac- 
 counted for the latter. I was sorry to learn 
 that he had been compelled to descend from his 
 Pegasus, and to procure daily bread, became a 
 drudge in the counting house of a merchant in 
 Moorgate Street, as foreign correspondent, for 
 which his intimate acquaintance with the con- 
 tinental languages fitted him. I fancy, how- 
 ever, that the hand which penned the ' Lion's 
 Ride' will find it difficult to descend to the 
 unromantic details of trade. It is not every 
 one who can, like Charles Lamb, submit to the 
 confinement of a desk, and be content to point 
 to ledgers and day-books as their 'great works.'" 
 William and Mary Howitt do not present 
 the only instance of man and wife jogging along 
 life's road together in the harness of literature. 
 Such a coalition, indeed, seldom occurs. We 
 have heard it remarked that a man of genius 
 ought to marry a fool, because during the inter- 
 vals of study he needs repose, and does not re- 
 quire to be bored with blue-stockingism. We 
 do jiot agree with such an opinion, for no more 
 delightful repose could a man of letters, we 
 think, desire than that which he would find in 
 the society of an accomplished wife. . We be- 
 lieve, indeed, that some writers we could name 
 are indebted for what reputation they have to 
 the tact and superior talents of their really 
 
FRKIHGllATII. 245 
 
 " better-halves." Another liard working pair 
 is Mr. and Mrs. S. 0. Hall, and we believe 
 Mr. and Mrs. Alaric A. Watts are partners in 
 literary labours. Of these we may hereafter 
 have somewhat to say. 
 
246 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 MUSICAL REMINISCENCES OLE BULL AND PAGANINI. 
 
 I AM seated, this lonely summer's night, in a 
 chamber, whose window commands a lovely 
 view of the bay beneath it. The full round 
 moon is tipping each shining wave with 
 silver as it rolls on the broad beach, and the 
 great deep is reflecting the myriad stars, which 
 brighter and larger than they appear through 
 an English atmosphere, hang like lamps, sus- 
 pended by viewless cords, from the far-off sky. 
 It would be vain to seek repose just now, for I 
 have just come in from a concert, and the de- 
 licious tones of Ole Bull's violin are echoing 
 and re-echoing through the chambers of 
 memory. While the impressions of this musi- 
 cal evening are vivid, let me pen a few memories 
 of musicians. 
 
 Before to-night, (I am writing this in the 
 " merrie month of May," in the year of grace, 
 one thousand eight hundred and fifty two,) 
 
OLE BULL. 247 
 
 Ole Bull had not, for some years, performed in 
 public. He came to America tliree months 
 since, on private business, and for some time re- 
 sisted all entreaties to favour his admirers with 
 a concert; but, at length, importunity triumphed, 
 and this eveninor's treat has been the result. 
 
 It is now more than twenty years since I first 
 heard Ole Bull it was at a concert he gave in 
 Bristol. 1 had previously met him in private 
 society, where his greatest delight was to roll 
 on the carpet, and play with my friend's 
 children ; for he was one of the simplest crea- 
 tures I ever met with. I shall not soon forget 
 his first appearance on the stage. Who does 
 not recollect the shy, almost painfully timid 
 manner in which he came forward instrument 
 in hand ? But when he placed his fiddle to his 
 shoulder, with a peculiar jerk, threw aside his 
 long fair hair, and drew forth the magic tones 
 of his instrument, all diffidence vanished, and 
 he became absorbed in his performance. Four- 
 teen years afterwards, I saw him in Boston, 
 and heard him perform his celebrated pieces 
 of " The Solitude of the Prairie," and " Nia- 
 gara," but they did not greatly impress me. 
 
 I had then but just returned from spending 
 a week at the great cataract, and the impres- 
 sions of awe were too strong upon me to allow 
 of my relishing fiddling expositions of their 
 
248 LiONS ; LIVING AND DEAD. 
 
 wraiideur and sublimity. In truth, the theme 
 was not suitable for musical delineation, and 
 wonderful, certainly, as Ole Bull's execution 
 was, it did not to my mind, convey any idea 
 whatever of the wondrous scene. To-night I 
 have again listened to him and with greater 
 pleasure than ever before his execution is 
 more brilliant, and his compositions more legi- 
 timate than those with which he formerly 
 gratified us. He is apparently as simple minded 
 and humble as ever, and here in America the 
 enthusiasm he excites is as great as ever. 
 
 Great as Ole Bull unquestionabry is, he stands 
 as a musician and violinist far below Paganini, 
 speaking of whom calls back vividly to memory 
 the first occasion of my seeing and hearing this 
 monarch of the violin. Few who ever looked 
 on his gaunt and spectral face can ever forget it. 
 It was one of those sights which remain im- 
 pressed upon the memory for ever. 
 
 Long before I heard this remarkable musician, 
 a thousand exao^nrerated rumours were in circu- 
 lation respecting him. Some said that his 
 violin was his familiar spirit others that he 
 acquired his extraordinary skill while incar- 
 cerated in a dungeon for some horrible crime, 
 and there were not wanting those who hinted 
 that the devil had lent him his violin, on the 
 stern condition that after playing on it for a 
 
PAGANINI. 249 
 
 certain number of years, he should personally 
 return it, and deliver up himself into the bar- 
 gain, to the Father of Evil. Of course vast 
 anxiety was manifested to see and hear him, 
 80 having paid three half-crowns for a ticket, 
 and it was hard to procure it at the price, I 
 
 got tightly wedged in the pit of the 
 
 Theatre, where I waited anxiously for the 
 appearance of the "lord of the unerring 
 (fiddle) bow." 
 
 Several pieces were to be performed before 
 Paganini made his appearance, and these like 
 oysters and lemon juice before a dinner, served 
 to whet the appetite for what was to follow. 
 This preliminary playing and singing was, 
 doubtless, very fine, but it passed off heavily 
 enough, and glad was I to discover by the aid 
 of the programme, that the " Carnival of 
 Venice,"*' by the great Maestro was to be the 
 next piece. 
 
 An interval of a few minutes. The "gods" 
 of the gallery have sobered down. Nuts are 
 no longer cracked, and the empty shells showered 
 on the heads of those in the pit. The popping 
 of ginger-beer corks has ceased, and the cry of 
 " apples and oranges,'** is heard no more. The 
 pit folks have squeezed themselves into as 
 comfortable positions as possible, and along the 
 boxes is seen a row of anxious faces, and a line 
 L 2 
 
250 LIOXS; LIVING AND DEAD. 
 
 of levelled lorgnettes. The musicians in the 
 orchestra are all in qui mve ; the " first fiddle" 
 look amazingly anxious as if he thought that 
 an extinguisher was about to be put upon him ; 
 the " flutes" rest with their lips resting lightly 
 on the orifices ; the " clarionets" stand with 
 reeds ready for vibration ; and the drum sticks 
 describe an imaginary angle of forty-five. There 
 is a windy waving of the green curtain, and a 
 
 prolonged sh goes round the house ; a 
 
 little bell rings once, and the musicians bend 
 to their books and instruments all but the 
 " flutes," who squint at the stage ; another 
 and a louder ring, and up goes the baize. Up 
 ^up up till the last fold of the curtain is 
 invisible, and there before us is revealed the 
 open stage, with a grand piano in its back 
 centre. A gentleman dressed very fashionably 
 and sparkling with jewellery^ carrying a roll of 
 music in his primrose gloved hand, enters, 
 bows, and takes his seat at the instrument. 
 He looks first at the audience with quite an 
 air of unconcern, as if he had already seen and 
 knew every thing about the great man. Now 
 he hems, looks intently at the wing, and as he 
 gives a jerk on the chair and takes oif his 
 gloves, it is evident some one is approaching. 
 How death-like is the silence. 
 
 With the slow and stealthy step of a tiger 
 
PAGAN I XI. 251 
 
 drawing near enough to its victim in order to 
 make the sure and fatal spring noiseless, and 
 with a horribly sardonic smile on his counte- 
 nance, glides sideways from behind the wing, a 
 being who startles every one who beholds him. 
 He is very tall, and so remarkably thin that his 
 black clothes hung loosely about him, his trow- 
 sers bagging as though they hung on poles. 
 These nether garments were so equally ample 
 that, at their termination, where they came in 
 contact with his small lady-like shoe, the 
 polished leather of which seemed to cover just 
 the tips of his toes, they appeared of about 
 the same width united as his shoulders. His 
 hips did not in the least project, so that he 
 appeared from his arm-pits downwards to be of 
 precisely the same breadth ; there being no pro- 
 jecting point to disturb the straight line. His 
 double-breasted coat had long skirts, and was 
 buttoned close to his chin, round which was a 
 white cravat, and a turned down collar. But 
 extraordinary as was his figure, his face and 
 head were the chief points of attraction and 
 wonder, so much so were they, that when a first 
 glimpse of the pale countenance especially was 
 caught, people involuntarily drew back, as if 
 they had seen a spectre. 
 
 He was ghastly pale. In the centre of his 
 high long forehead was parted his jet black 
 
252 LIONS ; LIVING AND DEAD. 
 
 hair, from wlience it fell down in curling and 
 waving masses to his shoulders. His eyebrows 
 vi^ere dark, and bushy, and where they ter- 
 minated outwardly, they were deep fossoe in 
 the temples. His nose was slightly beaked, 
 and on either side of it were the most remark- 
 able eyes, that, I believe mortal ever possessed. 
 They were small, dark and not sparkling, but 
 of a lustre somewhat resembling that of polished 
 steel when seen in a dimly lighted room, than 
 anything else with which I could compare 
 them. Their expression, as he smiled horribly 
 at the audience in recognition of their plaudits, 
 and as he bowed his long back was absolutely 
 snake-like. As I said, he came on the stage 
 sideways, bowing and smiling, and gradually 
 approaching to near the centre. His arms 
 were so long that as he bent, the fiddle and 
 bow which he held in one hand would have 
 touched the stage but that he held them 
 obliquely. At last he reached the front near 
 the foot lights, drew himself up to his full 
 height, held out his violin at arms length, sur- 
 veyed it as if it w^ere the most beloved thing in 
 the universe, and then slowly brought it to his 
 shoulder with as much gravity as if it had been 
 a deity and he a devotee. 
 
 With a firm and confident air, Paganini 
 t\wQW his right foot a little in advance of his 
 
PAGAKIKI. 253 
 
 left, which remained with the knee firmly 
 fixed, threw back his head, then inclined his 
 left ear towards his fiddle, smiling faintly as if 
 it were saying something to him, and he was 
 intently listening ; and lastly, lifting his long 
 fiddle bow high in air, stood with flashing eyes 
 and compressed lips a few seconds motionless 
 a perfect study. 
 
 At a nod of the violinist, the orchestra 
 struck up, and the pianist's fingers flew over the 
 ivory keys but still, like a sorcerer with his 
 wand, stood the magician, with his uplifted 
 bow. At length the ghost of a smile stole 
 over his rigid and marble-like features, and 
 every heart beat quickly as his long arm des- 
 cended, so gradually, that you would scarcely 
 see it move; bringing the lower portion of the 
 stick to the strings of the instrument. To the 
 disappointment of all it again ascended, and 
 remained a few inches above the bridge, whilst 
 the exceedingly long fingers of his left hand 
 struck a few chords, which were heard sharp 
 and distinct, above the warblings of the flute 
 and the grumblings of the trombones. Once 
 more his long arm ascends, and now it comes 
 down so delicately on the smallest string, that 
 something like the shadow of an exquisite tone 
 is heard "so soft, so sweet, so delicately clear," 
 that it is heard as distinctly as a silver rivulet 
 
254 LIONS ; LIVING AND DEAD. 
 
 is seen winding it sinuous course through some 
 vernal wood. It is unlike anything one ever 
 before heard produced from such an instrument; 
 or rather, it seems as though the sense of hear- 
 ing has been sharpened ; and now, succeeds a 
 gush of delicious melody, which, as it were, laps 
 the audience in elysium. It is not cannot 
 surely be fiddling ; and, see, the leader of the 
 band has absolutely forgotten himself, and sits 
 in wide-mouthed wonder listening to the magic 
 sounds. The maestro, ashis in spiration be- 
 comes more profound, partakes of the enthu- 
 siasm which he has created, and his serpent- 
 like eyes flash almost supernatural fire. He 
 smiles a ghastly satisfaction as he 
 
 ** Pours forth the notes, like enchanted wine 
 Loosens the chord* in a silver shower." 
 
 By a sudden change in the composition, he 
 now produces the most discordant notes, and 
 then surprises all by alternating them with 
 snatches of almost celestial melody. Now he 
 moves to tears, and anon convulses with mirth. 
 His violin for a few minutes nearly bellows ; 
 and then, as he slowly draws the bow across 
 the enchanted strings, he elicits a sound 
 
 " So fine that nothing lives 
 'Twixt it and silence." 
 
PAOANINI. 255 
 
 At length the spell ceases, the finale is played, 
 and with outspread arms, the bow in one hand 
 and the violin in the other, ho glides off the 
 stage, smiling, like a demon, as when he first 
 made his appearance. 
 
 Not the least interesting portion of the pro- 
 ceedings were the astonished looks of the musi- 
 cians, especially of the violin players; and 
 when they commenced playing in the interval 
 between the first and second appearance of 
 Paganini, I could not help thinking of the 
 couplet addressed by some one to a very indif- 
 ferent musician 
 
 ** When the Orpheus played so well, he moved Old Nick, 
 But thou mov'st nothing but thy fiddle-stick." 
 
 Not that the leader of the evening was a 
 second-rate artist. By no means, he was one 
 of the first in his time ; but what excellence 
 could stand when compared with Paganini ? 
 Like Cavanagh, the celebrated rocket player 
 to whom Hazlitt refers in bis " Table Talk'*'' - 
 the Italian not only had no equal, but no one 
 who stood second to him. 
 
 Great as Ole Bull confessedly is, few will be 
 disposed to admit that he is at all comparable 
 with Paganini. Paganini possessed genius^ 
 Ole Bull has talent ^great, indeed, but only 
 talent; be lacks the bold invention of the 
 
256 LIONS ; LIVING AND DEAD. 
 
 Italian. Paganini at once hopelessly distanced 
 all competitors Ole Bull has found successful 
 rivals in Vieuxtemps, Arto Sivor, and De 
 Beriot. The former resembles in his moods of 
 inspiration the rushing cataract ; the latter 
 would be more appropriately symbolized by 
 the placid, rolling river. Energy force 
 passion boundless enthusiasm belonged to the 
 one ; grace, tenderness, mildness, sweetness to 
 the other. Paganini demanded and received 
 the homage due to exalted genius ; Ole Bull 
 wins applause by the very power of his gentle- 
 ness. In short the Italian attained with 
 scarcely an effort to heights which the Nor- 
 wegian never can reach, though he should 
 devote a life-time to the attempt. I do not 
 desire to depreciate the talents of Ole Bull 
 he is admirable, but he has not, nor has any 
 other man, caught the falling mantle of the 
 great Paganini. 
 
 Since writing the above, I have met with the 
 following well written notice of Paganini, 
 which I offer no apology for quoting in this 
 place : 
 
 " Only a fiddler !" but, then, such a fiddler. 
 We remember, the Paganini-^QYQV^ as many, 
 some twenty years hence, will remember the 
 Lind-^QYQv and similar epidemics. We re- 
 member, in a provincial town, seeing a tall, 
 
PAGANINI. 257 
 
 laiul, wizard-looking bein^, with lon;((lai'k hair, 
 falling over Ins shoulders, and an eye and face 
 expressing together the genius and the sensual- 
 ist, eliciting thunders of applause from a numer- 
 ous audience for his marvellous performances on 
 the violin, which, in his thin, transparent, 
 skeleton-like left hand, became at will a one- 
 stringed or a twenty-stringed instrument, rising 
 from its full natural tones to the softness and 
 sweetness of a flageolet, or imitating the tink- 
 ling of the harp. We remember hearing of 
 amateurs on the violin, who, after listening to 
 his wild, beautiful, passionate, sometimes un- 
 earthly feats on the single distended cat-gut, 
 went home, some to smash, some to impig- 
 morate their Cremonas, in utter despair of ever 
 approaching within a thousand leagues of his 
 excellence. 
 
 This strange mixture of dross and gold was 
 born at Genoa, the J 8th of February, 1784. 
 His father, Antonio, and his mother Teresa, 
 were both diletanti in music, and Nvere not long 
 in discerning in their youthful son a strong 
 taste for the art they cultivated. To encourage 
 this taste his mother had, or pretended to have, 
 an angelic vision, and in the morning thus 
 spake to him : " My son, thou shalt become a 
 great musician ; for an angel, radiant with 
 beauty, appeared to me this night, and has lis- 
 
258 LIONS ; LIVING AND DEAD. 
 
 tened to the prayer I made him. I prayed him 
 that thou mayest become the firs't of violinists, 
 and the angel has promised me it shall be so." 
 From this time the study of the violin became 
 his sole object, and it was not many years be- 
 fore he surprised and delighted the most emi- 
 nent masters of that instrument with his com- 
 positions and performances. It was at the end 
 of one of his concerts in Paris when some one 
 asked Rossini what he thought of Paganini, 
 that the great composer replied, letting us into 
 the secret of 
 
 A musician's tears. 
 
 I have wept only three times in my life ; 
 the first time, when my first opera fell to the 
 ground on the first representation ; the second, 
 when being out in a boat with some friends, a 
 truffled turkey we were to have eaten, fell into 
 the water ; and the third, when I heard Paga- 
 nini for the first time. 
 
 It was at Lucca where he first astonished the 
 world by performing on one string. Here is 
 his own account : 
 
 HOW PAGANINI BEGAN TO PLAY ON ONE STRING. 
 
 At Lucca I directed the orchestra every time 
 the reigning family attended the opera. Often, 
 
PAGAKINI. 259 
 
 also, I was invited to the court circle, and fort- 
 nightly gave a grand concert. The Princess 
 Eliza always retired before the close, for tho 
 harmonious sounds of my instrument agitated 
 her nerves too keenly. A very amiable lady, 
 whom for a long time I had adored in petto 
 showed herself on the contrary, very assiduous 
 at the reufiions, and I came to discover that she 
 had a secret inclination for me. Gradually our 
 mutual liking grew. * 
 
 One day I promised to surprise her at the 
 first concert, with a musical gallantry, which 
 should have allusion to our mutual love and 
 friendship. At the same time I announced to 
 the court a novelty under the title of sce?ia 
 amorosa. The general curiosity was keenly 
 excited, but what was the astonishment of the 
 company on seeing me enter with a violin 
 having two strings only the bass and the 
 treble. The former expressed the feelings of a 
 young man who addressed his mistress in the 
 most impassioned language. A tender and 
 sentimental dialogue was thus established, fol- 
 lowed soon after by transports of jealousy. * * 
 The two lovers were finally reconciled, more 
 enamoured of each other than ever, and exe- 
 cuted a passo a due^ which terminated in a 
 brilliant finale. This scena was successful, not 
 to speak of the glances which the lady of my 
 
260 lions; living and dead^ 
 
 thoughts let fall upon me. The Princess Eliza, 
 after loading me with compliments, said with 
 much graeiousness, " You have done the im- 
 possible on two strings, will not one suffice for 
 your talent V I promised to make the experi- 
 ment. The idea haunted my imagination, and 
 some weeks after I had composed a sonata for 
 the fourth string entitled '' Napoleon," which 
 I executed before a numerous and brilliant 
 court. The success far exceeded my expecta- 
 tions, and hence my predilection for the sol 
 string from that day. 
 
 " This," says one of his biographers, "is a 
 more reasonable liking for the fourth or sol string 
 of the violin, than that he was confined in 
 prison on accusation of murder, where he 
 was only allowed the use of a violin with one 
 string." A further supposes that the rumour 
 may have arisen from the following circum- 
 stance : A violinist, formerly a pupil of Viotti, 
 who had changed his name, Durand, into 
 Duranowski, lived in Milan at the same time 
 as Paganini. Led away by bandits, the unfor- 
 tunate artist broke with them, during the night, 
 into a remote farm-house. He was condemned 
 to a long imprisonment, and his violin was 
 brought to him in his cell as a special favour. 
 What became of this artist was never properly 
 known. All such may have been the case, but 
 
PAOANINI. 261 
 
 at tlic sanio time it is known, and admitted by 
 his biographers, that, when emancipated from 
 parental control, he led a most discreditable 
 life, ^rambled, formed improper laisons^ and 
 was the associate of not a few distinguished 
 black-legs. From 1808 to 1813, he was 
 almost entirely lost sight of, and respecting 
 this period of his life he would never afford any 
 satisfactory explanation. On the other hand, 
 it is possible envy may have greatly exaggerated 
 his faults, and dummy gathers bulk as it rolls 
 along. At Vienna he was accused of having 
 poisoned his wife : and when it had been proved 
 that he had never been married, then it was, 
 that he had poinarded his mistress. These 
 rumours impelled him to make a declaration in 
 one of the musical journals, which thus finishes : 
 " I protest as much in the interest of my repu- 
 tation and honour, as of truth, that never at 
 any time or place, or under any government 
 whatsoever, have I been constrained by any 
 motive, to lead other life than what beseemed 
 a free man, an honourable citizen, and a strict 
 observer of the laws.'' We have no wish to 
 uncover the errors of genius, nor to glaze over 
 those which genius, sometimes, casts too ob- 
 trusively before the public eye. 
 
 To follow Paganini throughout his musical 
 career, or to note circumstantially his pilgrim- 
 
262 LIONS ; LIVING AND DEAD. 
 
 ages and vagaries, is not our intention. Out 
 of his own country, he first appeared in Vienna, 
 in 1828, at the invitation of Prince Metternich. 
 His success was great, the public were enrap- 
 tured, and the mechanism of his execution, the 
 most eminent musicians of that capital were 
 unable to solve. Among other, Meseyder 
 aslied him " How do you produce these mar- 
 vellous effects, which have something in them 
 supernatural V Smiling, he gave the charac- 
 teristic reply, " Every one has his secrets, my 
 dear sir." At Prague he was coldly received ; 
 in Brussels he was laughed at. Berlin made 
 atonement for the Bohemian capital, in the en- 
 thusiastic reception she gave him. " Here," 
 he exclaimed, " I have found my Viennese 
 public again !" From Berlin he went to War- 
 saw, from Warsaw to Holland, from Holland 
 to Paris, and reached England in 1831. The 
 visit of the maestiw to this country must still 
 be remembered by thousands, who rushed to 
 his concerts, content to pay the most exorbitant 
 prices, and to endure any amount of pressure 
 in the crowd short of collapse. Brighton was 
 in a state of riot almost, because he charged 
 four shillings to the gallery, but the notes of 
 his fiddle soon dispelled every sign of bad tem- 
 per, and his progress through the three kingdoms 
 was a series of triumphs. People heard of his 
 
PAGAN INI. 263 
 
 avarice, and of tales little to his advantage, but 
 they cared only to hear him draw his bow 
 across the strin^ of his violin, surrender their 
 shillings ungrud;ingly, and lost all memory of 
 scandal, for the time they were under his in- 
 fluence at least. 
 
 In 1837, Paijanini gave the proceeds of two 
 concerts in Turin, amounting to 30,000 francs, 
 to the poor. Paternal love, in this instance, 
 triumphed over his cupidity. He hoped, by 
 this instance of generosity, to obtain, through 
 the King of Sardinia, the legitimatism of a 
 natural son he had by a noble lady, but did not 
 succeed in his object. 
 
 For several years prior to his death, which 
 occurred on the 27th May, at Nice, from disease 
 of the larynx, Paganini did not appear much in 
 public. His immense fortune he left in lega- 
 cies to his two sisters, in an annuity of similar 
 amount to the mother of his son Achillino (a 
 Venetian Jewess, who had long been h\s/rie?id 
 and companion in travel, and from whom he 
 had separated, fearing her violent temper, and 
 the destruction of his cremonas), and the rest 
 of his fortune, amounting to above four millions 
 of frances, he left to his natural son. 
 
264 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 THE LxiST SONG OP THE NIGHTINGALE, A 
 
 "jenny LIND" sketch in new YORK. 
 
 Elsewhere in this volume I have slightly 
 sketched the Norwegian violinist, Ole Bull 
 let me now present an outline of Jenny Lind, 
 as she appeared a night or two ago, and 
 warbled her farewell to the Western World. 
 
 When the intelligence that Jenny Lind was 
 about to make her last appearance in New 
 York, I was paying a visit to my friend in 
 Newport, Rhode Island, but I could not think 
 of lettinor the Nio^htinorale take her farewell 
 flight without my hearing her once again ; so, 
 on the night preceding the appointed evening, 
 I jumped on board a New York and Boston 
 steamer, and soon, amid darkness and storm 
 without, though the saloon of the boat was 
 brilliant enough within, was plunging through 
 Long Island Sound towards the Empire City. 
 
 A great many of the passengers were bound 
 for the same destination as myself the Con- 
 
JENNY LTND. 265 
 
 cert Room of Castlo Gardens, and it was not a 
 little amusin<T to sit in a corner, as I did, and 
 listen to the various criticisms on the excel- 
 lence of the inimitable Swede. Some of the 
 speakers used very high flown language indeed, 
 and likened her notes to " rippling waves of 
 melody" "gushes of celestial harmonies" 
 and the like. There were some remarkably 
 unapposite similes, too, which reminded one of 
 the lady who, in describing a brilliant moon- 
 light night, exclaimed " I was as light, sir, 
 as light let me see yes as light as cork P"* 
 
 There was one tall Vermonter, a regular 
 Green Mountain Boy, who favoured us with 
 an account of his sensations on first hearing 
 Jenny. " Heaven and airth !" he exclaimed ; 
 " she war the rele grit, and no two ways 
 about it. When she gin us that ar bird song, 
 by thunder ! if I couldn'*t have flung my 
 boots at her I" which, considering that the 
 Yankee gentleman's leathers were none of the 
 lightest, appeared to me a rather striking com- 
 pliment, and a far less fragrant one, than a 
 bouquet. 
 
 One does hear strange things in America. 
 Not a month ago I went to see Mr. Forrest 
 perform, on a farewell night, at the Broadway 
 Theatre. After the play, he was called on the 
 stage, and bowed his acknowledgments. Then 
 
266 LIONS ; LIVING AND DEAD. 
 
 "Mr. Forrest, in appropriate remarks, returned 
 thanks, and alluded to the progress of the 
 drama in this country, which was rivalling the 
 energy of the old. He would not say that it 
 could ever approach Shakspere, for he seemed 
 to have taken a sponge, and wiped it over 
 creation, absorbing all human feelings, and 
 then squeezed them out again." 
 
 Now, this "caps the climax" of all the criti- 
 cisms on Shakspere which we have ever met 
 with ; Malone, Stevens, Payne, Collier, Charles 
 Knight, Hudson, and others, may hencefor- 
 wards hide their diminished heads. That 
 " squeezing out" of the feelings from the 
 " sponge" is great ! To prove that I am not 
 exaggerating, I extract the above from a report 
 in " The New York Herald." 
 
 Well do I remember my wnsh to hear Jenny 
 Lind, on the first night of her appearance in 
 London. But terrific as was the struggle on 
 that occasion to reach the interior of the house, 
 it was a trifle compared to the fierce fight for 
 places on the farewell occasion in New York. 
 I remember nothing like it, excepting the rush 
 at the same place to hear Kossuth, and the mob 
 of aristocracy and all the other " ocracies" who 
 assailed the Concert Room doors in England 
 wdien Paganini appeared. 
 
 This rush at the Concert Room however was 
 
JKXNY LIND. 267 
 
 not the first I had to encounter, for it was al- 
 most as terrific at the place where alono the 
 tickets for the performance could be procured. 
 It appeared that for some time before the hour 
 at which it was announced they would be 
 ready for issue, the doors of the office were be- 
 sieged by a posse of speculators, who bought 
 up all; thus creating a monopoly. It was only 
 by paying double the price six dollars that I 
 could get one at all ; and hundreds besides my- 
 self submitted to the same imposition. 
 
 Eight o'clock was the hour fixed for the 
 commencement of the concert, but two hours 
 before that time Broadway vvas thronged with 
 carriages and pedestrians hurrying to the centre 
 of attraction the Castle Garden. This is a 
 circular building of immense magnitude, built 
 out from a beautiful promenade, or little park, 
 and almost completely by the waters of the Bay 
 of New York. The Battery itself presented a 
 very lively scene, it being thronged with people 
 of all colours and in all costumes. Here you 
 might see a genuine Broadway dandy, with 
 moustache and imperial of unexceptionable pat- 
 tern, and garments of Parisian cut, swearing 
 at a Nigger for daring to come between the 
 '* wind and his nobility." These " nigger 
 exquisites" are amusing specimens of humanity 
 enough. Fancy a black fellow strutting about 
 
268 LIONS ; LIVING AND DEAD. 
 
 as conceited as a peacock, in a sky-blue coat, 
 brass buttons, a waistcoat glittering with gold 
 chains, a collar standing up to his eyes, nan- 
 keen tights, and a glossy hat perched jauntily 
 on a pyramid of wool, gibbering soft nonsense 
 to a coloured lady decked out in all the colours 
 of the rainbow, and you have some idea of the 
 New York Free Nigger. Then there were 
 Loafers, Rock Boys, Rowdies, ruffians of all de- 
 scriptions. Southerners, Down Easters, Bro- 
 siers. Buckeyes, Suckers, Old Hossus, and 
 strangers without number. With the excep- 
 tion of "drab-coloured men" from Philadel- 
 phia, we might have deemed that specimens of 
 " natives" from all parts of Yankee Doodle- 
 Dom were present on the smooth sward of the 
 Battery. Such a motley assemblage could have 
 been witnessed nowhere save in New York. 
 
 At seven the barriers which interposed be- 
 tween the multitude and the interior of the 
 Castle Gardens were removed, and almost im- 
 mediately the immense area of the building 
 was densely thronged in every part, and a more 
 superb looking assemblage I have seldom seen. 
 Of course it was vastly different to that which 
 may be seen at the English Opera House on a 
 great occasion, but it had not the "damp" of 
 state and etiquette, which throws a chill over 
 our aristocratic audiences. If there were not 
 
JENNY LIND. 269 
 
 SO many jewels flashing as we arc accustomed 
 to view in European theatres, there was a much 
 more splendid display of pretty faces and hright 
 eyes than are to he seen in Parisian or London 
 places of amusement ; for the American ladies, 
 when young, are almost all of them charming; 
 pity it is that their beauty is so evanescent. 
 
 The time of commencement arrived, and 
 curiosity was now upon tiptoe. Since the last 
 visit to New York, Jenny had changed her 
 name, but still her maiden designation was on 
 every body's lips. Every one was anxious to 
 see whether matrimony had changed their 
 favourite, and so the early parts of the concert 
 did not attract profound attention At length 
 appeared the star of the evening, and the hurst 
 of welcome with which she was greeted was 
 tremendous. There she stood, attired in robes 
 of bridal purity, with the same simple grace 
 the same sweet, unaffected smile as of old. It 
 was Jenny, and Jenny only. Madame Gold- 
 schmidt appeared as much a fiction as did the 
 "Mrs. Harris" she was to have been. 
 
 Her husband led her on, and he too came in 
 for his share of applause, of course. He was 
 the object of much curiosity to the ladies, who, 
 from what I could hear, did not seem to admire 
 Jenny's taste in the selection of a partner. In 
 person he is rather insignificant ; but it is said 
 
270 LIONS ; LIVING AND DEAD. 
 
 that he is very amiable and talented. The 
 most absurd rumours respecting the match have 
 been circulated, such as that Jenny tied him 
 down, by securing her property to herself ; but 
 this would be any thing but like the nightin- 
 gale's character. Says the " New York Musi- 
 cal World," Otto Goldschmidt's marriage with 
 Jenny Lind was, after all, a very natural affair 
 the world had imagined it to be celestial, 
 from the divine character of Jenny, most likely. 
 He married Jenny, and Jenny married Otto, 
 after the usual manner it was a bargain be- 
 tween two contracting parties, both having the 
 necessary mental capacity to enter into the 
 covenant ; and it was induced at least by some 
 of the usual concomitants of contracts it had 
 the consideration, at all events, of a last will 
 and testament natural affection. On her part 
 it was a return for obligations conferred by Otto 
 and Otto''s father, besides sundry other causes 
 " moving her thereunto ;" and on his side, he 
 seems to have made a kind of draft on his god- 
 mother, which was accepted and paid in pro- 
 mises of love, honour, and obedience. Thou- 
 sands of persons have committed matrimony, 
 and passed along the world, as the lawyers say, 
 " under bonds," and we do not see that Otto 
 Goldschmidt and Jenny have made out a diffe- 
 rent case at all. 
 
JENNY LIND. 271 
 
 Mr. GoUlschniidt is tlio favourite son of one 
 of the ricliest merchants in Ilambur^r, Ger- 
 many. His grandfather is proprietor of a 
 ciirantic silk merchant's house, that has three 
 establishments one in London, a second in 
 Hamburg, and the third in Leipzig. Otto 
 Goldschmidt was, therefore, Jenny Lind's equal 
 in wealth, needed none of her money, and cared 
 not a pin for it. Many years ago, when the 
 Swedish Nightingale was a poor birdling, with- 
 out friends or money. Otto Goldschmidt's 
 father (being as sagacious as he was wealthy, 
 and benevolent as he was sagacious,) protected, 
 aided, and fostered her, ; and it may be that the 
 merry young Otto, who was then a charming 
 little fellow, soul full of genius, and loving to 
 a fault, said many kind things to the gentle 
 and talented Swede, was caressed by her in 
 return, and learned to love her so well when a 
 child, that he could not overcome his affection 
 when he became a man ; and so, of course it 
 overcame him. He was Mendelssohn's fa- 
 vourite pupil, and early exhibited remarkable 
 musical talents ; and the fair Swede doubtless 
 felt that interest and affection for the splendid 
 boy that the child of genius ever feels for beings 
 of like exquisite organizations and heaven-gifted 
 attributes. They who know the human heart 
 will not think it strange, after reading thus far. 
 
272 LIONS ; LIVING AND DEAD. 
 
 that Jenny Lind should have loved Otto ; and 
 each dearly loving the other, it is not wonder- 
 ful that they should have been married ; it is 
 only wonderful that they were not married 
 before." 
 
 The selection of pieces for the farewell con- 
 cert was decidedly good. Madame Goldschmidt 
 sang " Casta Diva" gloriously, but the simple, 
 familiar Scotch ballad of " Comin Through the 
 Rye," drew down overwhelming plaudits. 
 Then came the farewell song, which was well 
 received, of course, because Jenny Lind sang 
 it. It could not have been applauded on ac- 
 count of its poetical merits, for it has none. 
 Here it is, however : 
 
 JENNY LIND'S FAREWELL TO AMERICA. 
 
 Young land of hope fair Western Star ! 
 Whose light I hailed from climes afar 
 I leave thee now but twine for thee 
 One parting wreath of melody. 
 O take this offering of the heart 
 From one who feels 'tis sad to part. 
 
 And if it be that strains of mine 
 Have glided from my heart to thine. 
 My voice was but the breeze that swept 
 The spirit chords that in thee slept. 
 The music was not all my own 
 Thou gavest back the answering tone. 
 
JEKNY LIKD. 273 
 
 Farewell when parted from thy shore, 
 Long absent scenes return once more ; 
 Where'er the wanderer's home may be. 
 Still, still will memory turn to thee. 
 Bright Freedom's clime I fool thy spell, 
 But I must say farewell farewell ! 
 
 When she had concluded the song, the 
 shower of bouquets whicli greeted her, and the 
 applause from thousands of lips, seemed fairly 
 to overcome her, and tears started from her 
 gentle eyes, as she retired for ever from the 
 American stage. 
 
 I do not know that I can conclude this 
 slight sketch more appropriately than by tran- 
 scribing the following able written article from 
 the " New York Courier and Enquirer" a 
 journal which is conducted with great ability, 
 and whose criticisms are always to be relied on. 
 
 ' It is somewhat remarkable that the only 
 gloomy skies under which madame Gold- 
 scHMiDT has sung here, have been those which 
 lowered upon her leav^e-taking. The threaten- 
 ing clouds of yesterday kept no one out of 
 Castle Garden last evening, and her farewell 
 notes fell upon the ears of a throng which even 
 out-numbered the thousands who gathered to 
 hear her greeting. Last evening was the climax 
 of her triumph, the last and the greenest leaf of 
 the laurel which she has won ; and yet we do 
 not doubt that there was some sadness mingled 
 M 2 
 
27-i lions; living and dead. 
 
 with the exultation she could not but feel at 
 such a tribute to her genius. 
 
 " Her American life has been eventful. She 
 has received greater honours here than are 
 awarded to any save those who are acknow- 
 ledged as the benefactors of their kind. We 
 refer not to social distinction or public demon- 
 stration ; these have been vilely prostituted 
 before and since she trod our shores. But her 
 name has become almost a synonyme for good- 
 ness. There lives no man who is not base or 
 pitiably sceptical who does not utter it with 
 reverence. During her visit she has given to 
 numbers who must be told by hundreds of 
 thousands, the purest pleasure which it lies in 
 mortal ministration to bestow. She has con- 
 ferred happiness upon thousands here who but 
 for her talents and virtues would have been 
 suffering cold, nakedness and hunger. She has 
 assisted to establish institutions whence per- 
 manent blessings shall be diffused throughout 
 her native land ; and has made old friends 
 there, amid the comforts she has placed around 
 them, bless the day when they first knew the 
 Swedish singing girl. She has accumulated a 
 fortune for herself: she has bestowed it and 
 herself upon another ; and she leaves a fortune 
 here unmade. She can turn with indifference 
 from the heaps of gold which await her gather- 
 ing here during only the waning of the next 
 
JEXNY LIXD. 275 
 
 two moons. Is not such a twenty months 
 career little less than fairy work ? Is it a 
 matter of wonder that such a woman should be 
 spoken of in continual hyperbole? 
 
 What her genius is, and how it works its 
 wonders, has been repeatedly set forth with 
 some minuteness. We did not bow unques- 
 tioning to her fame ; we refused to rest our 
 admiration upon the experience of others. We 
 brought to our consideration of her perform- 
 ances the closest scrutiny which it was in our 
 power to bestow ; we measured the plummet 
 of our judgment by the height of her reputation. 
 To have done less would have been to insult 
 her genius with ignorant adulation, and affront 
 our readers with the words of cowardice and 
 presumption. Her fullness of power, the gran- 
 deur of her ideal, were not at first manifest to 
 us. It could not have appeared to those who 
 professed to discern it. They saw but a re- 
 flected light from the glow of their own excited 
 imaginations, and mistook it for the halo of 
 her genius. But that was clouded and dimmed 
 by the ungenial atmosphere in which it was 
 pent. She stepped from the languid haze and 
 fitful passion gusts of Southern romance into 
 the pure repose of classic air, and there was all 
 herself; what before was incongruous became 
 harmonious ; the inconsistency between the 
 
276 LIONS ; LIVING AND DEAD. 
 
 matter of her performance and its manner 
 vanished ; great she always was, but now she 
 became supreme, and to her supremacy we 
 bowed. Yet even then we strove to tell the 
 reason of our homage ; for we knew that the 
 completer our confession, the more entire would 
 be our justification and her triumph. Another 
 opportunity is offered to us this morning to re- 
 new this labour of love ; but we decline it. 
 We claim once the privilege of enjoying such 
 pleasure without immediately baring to the 
 world the memory of our emotions ; and, lay- 
 ing at her feet a critical pen which, in the use 
 of a few short years, has been neither idle, 
 timorous nor servile, we content ourselves with 
 recording that at last even Madame Goldschmidt 
 closed with honour, and an ovation of success, 
 the American career which she commenced as 
 Jenny Lind. 
 
 After the last echo of her voice had died 
 away, she received and gave an idea which 
 came from and was given to more hearts than 
 ever before thrilled at once beneath the touch 
 of genius. The last glimpse of her figure was 
 eagerly sought by thousands, and soon the great 
 dome of Castle Garden, just blazing with the 
 light and teeming with life and emotion, became 
 but a huge, black, silent cavern. Its glory had 
 departed, and in it such another will never shine." 
 
277 
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 " mysteries" op the LONDON PRESS. AUTHORS 
 AND ARTISTS J OR, " SKETCHES BEHIND THE 
 SC5ENE3." REYNOLDS PIERCE EGAN NICHOL- 
 SON, (fee. 
 
 This will bo a desultory chapter a sort of 
 random gossip about persons who, although 
 they do not occupy very prominent positions in 
 the literary world, are sufficiently well known 
 to be objects of interest, and concerning some 
 matters appertaining to literature which con- 
 cerns the reader. 
 
 There are, in London, two great literary 
 localities reservoirs or fountain-heads of printed 
 knowledge of all sorts, whence to all other por- 
 tions of the great city and to the country 
 generally, flow through countless meadows of 
 margin, innumerable rivulets of wit to the 
 book-thirsty multitudes. Of these head quar- 
 ters of Book-dom, the one most extensively 
 known, and by far the most important, is 
 known all over the reading world as Paternos 
 
278 LIONS ; LIVING AND DEAD. 
 
 ter-Row or, " the Row," as it is always 
 termed by the Trade. Here are the establish- 
 ments of some of the great publishers, such aa 
 the Longmans' ; and, along its narrow pave- 
 ments, for scores of years past, both hopeful, 
 anxious, and despairing authors have sauntered 
 and saunter still. Could some of the stones in 
 the old houses speak, what tales of joy and 
 sorrow might they not reveal ! 
 
 The " Row" is the big-book mart the place 
 where issue goodly quartos the age of folios, 
 like that of Chivalry, is gone and bulky oc- 
 tavos with these we have, just now, little or 
 nothing to do ; we must travel fruther west, 
 for, in that direction, is the region of cheap 
 serial literature works, which the magnates 
 near Saint Paul's would turn up their noses at. 
 Before we quit this locality, however, let us 
 remark, that old Stowe informs us, " Paternos- 
 ter-Row was so called, because of stationers, or 
 text-writers that dwelt there, who wrote and 
 sold all sorts of books then in use, namely, A. 
 B. C, with the Pater Noster, Ave, Creed, 
 Graces, &;c,, &c. Here stands Dolly's Chop 
 House, and near it, in days of yore, Richard 
 Tarlton, the celebrated Clown of Queen Eliza- 
 beth's reign, kept an Ordinary, called " The 
 Castle;" and here lived Mrs. Anne Turner, 
 
" mysteries'' of the LONDON PIIESS. 279 
 
 the inventor of Yellow Starch, and a principal 
 hand in poisonino; Sir Thomas Overbury. 
 
 llunninfT parallel with the strand, from St. 
 Clement Danes Church to that of Saint Mary 
 lo Strand, is a dirty narrow thoroughfare this 
 is Holy well-Street a thoroup^hfare almost en- 
 tirely inhabited by second-hand clothes sellers, 
 publishers of cheap serials, second-hand book- 
 sellers and printsellers. It is an odd looking 
 locality. High over head you see, in clear 
 weather, a thin strip or ribbon of sky ; for, the 
 projection stories so nearly approach their op- 
 posite neighbours, that the free admission of 
 light and air are out of the question, and in no 
 place throughout its whole extent, is the road- 
 way 80 wide that you cannot jump across it ; 
 and strange looking are the denizens of this 
 lane, for it deserves no better name. From 
 their doors, half hidden by furbished-up vest- 
 ments, pounce upon the unwary, hook-nosed 
 Hebrews, or sallow, squab Jewesses, with 
 " Shell yer a veskit !" or, " Vant tcf shell any 
 closh r or with pressing invitations to you to 
 walk in, and be assuredly done for. Here and 
 therp you will observe dingy windows, in which, 
 half concealed, are pages and pictures which 
 dare not be displayed openly. Now you stand 
 before a tempting old book stall ; and now 
 there issueth from a low- windowed shop, the 
 
280 LIONS ; LIVING AND DEAD. 
 
 peculiar odour of newly printed sheets. At 
 every turn you are jostled by dingy boys who 
 rush along, laden with damp reams or quires 
 of newspapers ; or bundles of clothing ; and, 
 occasionally, a post-office boy dashing along 
 furiously, bespattering you, as he goes, with 
 mud and mire. On Fridays the place is all 
 alive with business, and the principal news- 
 venders, who are getting their weekly sup- 
 plies of cheap literature. As you pass, you 
 may hear them vociferously crying out to the 
 shopman for their lists ; and it is not a little 
 amusing to mark their cant phrases for they 
 have a phraseology of their own a language 
 peculiar to Holywell-street. I once heard an 
 urchin, at the top of his voice, bawling for the 
 " Ulcerated News," as he termed the " Illus- 
 trated London News," an alteration that by no 
 means I fancy an improvement of the title of 
 that very respectable journal. 
 
 Innumerable are the cheap works of fiction 
 which are daily, hourly, sent forth from this 
 cheap mart of literature, but little enough is 
 known of the producers of them. Conspicuous 
 among the names of the authors of the penny 
 a week " splendid, thrilling and romantic 
 works," is the name of Mr. G. W. M. Rey- 
 nolds. There is not a newsvender's window in 
 London, and*very few indeed out of it, where 
 
" MYSTE'RIEs" of the LONDON PRESS. 281 
 
 one of his many productions may not bo found. 
 Ho is as fruitful as James, but there all simili- 
 tude between these writers ends. There they 
 lie, on counters and in windows, in heaps, each 
 sheet adorned with a takin<^ illustration of some 
 sort ; and, as an additional attraction, on the 
 covers of the monthly parts, may be seen a 
 portrait of Mr. Reynolds himself, looking as 
 bland and beatific as though he had never 
 dipped his pen in blood and brimstone, and 
 sent his readers, after supping of horrors, to 
 shiver in the streets. By the way, the portrait 
 is about one of the very best likenesses I ever 
 saw ; but it is not quite right that an artist, 
 that did not produce it, should, by attaching his 
 name thereto, have the credit thereof. The 
 painting, from which the engraving was taken, 
 was executed by Mr. Henry S. Parkman, an 
 artist of Bristol, who, I predict, will be far 
 better known in his profession than he is. His 
 portrait of George Cruikshank is the best ever 
 done of that great genius. The reason why 
 Parkman is not better known is that he resides 
 in Bristol, a place that has damned more talent 
 than, perhaps, any other in Queen Victoria's 
 dominions. I speak strongly, but I do so with 
 all my heart and soul. 
 
 I forget how it came to pass, but I believe it 
 was in connexion with some newspaper busi- 
 
282 LIONS ; LIVING AND DEAD. 
 
 ness, that I first met with Mr. G. W. M. Rey- 
 nolds. At that time (about six years ago,) he 
 resided in apartments in King-square, Goswell- 
 road, over a green-grocer's shop. I found him 
 in a back room, wrapped in a dingy dressing- 
 gown, and perched on a stool at a high desk, 
 writing away like a steame-engine. He was 
 a tall, well-made man, about three or four and 
 thirty years of age. His face was light-com- 
 plexioned, and with the exception of the fore- 
 head, he was good-looking enough. That 
 forehead, however, w^as fatal to anything like 
 intellectual developement ; for it was about the 
 lowest I have ever seen, and it sloped away 
 from the eyebrows like the roof of a house. At 
 its summit if summit it could be called 
 dark curly hair was parted in the centre with 
 some care. The eyes were dark and expressive, 
 but partially concealed by spectacles, and the 
 whole expression of the face was that of a man 
 who, when he looked in the glass, felt perfectly 
 satisfied with himself on the score of personal 
 appearance. 
 
 Mr. Reynolds conducted me to his parlour, 
 and showed me a portrait of his father, who he 
 said was Sir Somebody Reynolds an admiral, 
 or something of that sort. In the course of 
 conversation, I happened to mention that I 
 had, a day or so before, met with a very con- 
 
" mysteries" of the LONDON PRESS. 283 
 
 tinuation of ** Don Juan." " Ah V said ho, 
 *' I wrote it;" and after rummaging about in 
 a cupboard, he showed me the manuscript. 
 Then he favoured me with portions of his his- 
 tory, which I do not know I am violating any 
 confidence in mentioning here. He had been 
 for a long time living at Paris, where he was 
 connected with a newspaper, which did not 
 succeed, in search of literary employment, and 
 at that time Dickens^s " Pickwick" was all the 
 rage. His talents being essentially suggestive, 
 rather than original (he did not tell me that, 
 though,) ^he conceived the idea, as he was 
 well-acquainted with Parisian life, of continu- 
 ing the story, under the title of " Pickwick 
 Abroad."' The first chapter of this tale he sub- 
 mitted to the publishers of the old " Monthly 
 Magazine."" It took among a certain class, for 
 it was very decently done, and he became 
 editor of the Magazine. Afterwards he edited 
 a weekly penny publication, " The London 
 Journal," in which he wrote various " thrilling'"* 
 romances. He also had some connection with 
 the " Weekly Dispatch,"* doing the " Foreign 
 News." I believe ; but his great hit, and that 
 which made the fortune of its publisher, Mr. 
 
 S , was his " Mysteries of London," a la 
 
 Eugene Sue's *' Mysteries of Paris." This 
 work was published at a penny a week, and as 
 
284 LIONS ; LIVING AND DEAD. 
 
 it ministered to the depraved appetites of the 
 lower classes, its popularity w^as prodigious. 
 Murders, seductions, robberies, horrors of all 
 sorts, spiced with abuse of the upper orders, 
 formed the staple of the story. And it was 
 written in such a taking style, that persons 
 who would have been ashamed to have owned 
 that they read such a work, did so stealthily. 
 A quarrel with the publisher, dissolved the 
 connexion between him and Reynolds, and 
 the former, relying on the popularity of the 
 " Mysteries," engaged Mr. Thomas Miller, 
 and afterwards Mr. E. L. Blanchard, to con- 
 tinue the series. But it would not do. Neither 
 Mr. Miller, nor Mr. Blanchard, could write 
 passages " warm" enough to suit the vitiated 
 tastes of Mr. Reynold's admirers. Miller loved 
 too well to " babble o' green trees and running 
 brooks, and the delights of the green country," 
 such were camaire to the multitude. And 
 young Blanchard could not stain his own repu- 
 tation and that of his father's, by linking his 
 name with licentiousness. So after four vo- 
 lumes additional the work ceased. Mr. Rey- 
 nolds, however, started, as the Yankees say, 
 " on his own book,*" and brought out the 
 " Mysteries of the Court of London," which 
 being so concocted as to please the palates of 
 the not over fastidious, immediately com- 
 
" mysteries'' Ol- TiiK LONDON PRESS. 285 
 
 manded a large sale. Like his former work, it 
 is a compound of sensuality and sentiment, 
 founded upon the intrigues of the court of the 
 Fourth George. 
 
 It cannot he denied that Reynolds semetimes 
 writes powerfully and tastefully nothing can 
 well be truer to nature than his descriptions of 
 life in London and I happen to know that he 
 does not always paint without models. On one 
 occasion, he had to describe Bedlam, and I was 
 one of a party who accompanied him to that 
 great Lunatic Asylum. True, and I shall never 
 forget it, I saw, caged like wild beasts, the 
 state prisoners we were admitted into their 
 barred den but were not permitted to speak 
 this was Oxford, the pot-boy who shot at the 
 Queen curly headed and looking merry, and 
 no more like a madman than myself; there 
 that wretch Captain Johnstone of the Tory, 
 who ought to have been hanged there 
 McNaughton, who mistaking Mr. Drummond 
 for Sir Robert Peel, shot him near Charing 
 cross, and there too, the unfortunate and gifted 
 artist Dodd, who in a fit of Insanity cut his 
 father's throat. A nice company for a nervous 
 man to be in ! Oxford was engaged in making 
 gloves and braces, a pair of which I afterwards 
 bought Dodd was executing some grotesque 
 but beautiful drawings and Johnstone was 
 
286 LIONS ; LIVING AND DEAD. 
 
 walking savagely up and down his prison, 
 glaring like a captain tiger he was sane enough 
 then, for no drink, his sole cause of madness, 
 was at hand. Gladly I left that place of 
 torment, and never more desire to examine 
 another such an establishment. 
 
 There were in our party two or three other 
 gentlemen who were conneoted with the cheap 
 
 press one of them Mr. W. J. H 1, was a 
 
 schoolmaster, I believe, who filled up his leisure 
 time in " vamping" up articles for the London 
 Journal such as Histories of Impostures and 
 that sort of thing and so far as they could be 
 done, he did them well the other was a very 
 stiff, very pompous, red-faced, grizzled-haired 
 gentleman, with a macawberish roll in his voice, 
 and a spice of dandyism in his dress his name 
 
 was S 1 ; he translated for the said London 
 
 Journal, Thier's History of the Consulate and 
 tht Empire. On the strength of this he passed 
 as a literary man, and to look at and hear him, 
 one would have supposed him one of Longman's 
 staff at least. A third gentleman was really a 
 clever and extremely well informed person 
 tall, with dark complexion, he looked like what 
 he was, a West Indian he was an acute 
 thinker, a versatile writer, and a first rate 
 scholar, but unfortunaj:ely he swamped all his 
 intellect away in a paltry penny Journal, which 
 
" mysteries" of the LONDON PRESS. 287 
 
 he edited for a publisher of the Shylock sort, 
 an ignorant fellow who treated authors as 
 though they were his inferiors. This was Mr. 
 John Wilson lloss brother of the Mr. Ross, 
 who wrote a very clever book, a Yacht voyage 
 to Norway. 
 
 Whilst Reynold was engaged on the Dis- 
 'patch newspapers, he, on the death of Mr. 
 Williams, who originally wrote the letters of 
 " Publicola"" in that journal, continued them 
 for some weeks, and so successfully imitated the 
 style of that individual, that, as the death of 
 Williams was carefully concealed from the 
 readers of the journal in question, the substitu- 
 tion was never discovered. I may here mention 
 that the present writer of the Publicola Letters 
 is Mr. W. J. Fox, formerly of Moorfields 
 Unitarian Chapel, and now M. P. for Oldham. 
 A similar series of letters in the Weekly Times 
 were some time written by Dr. Robert Shelton 
 Mackenzie, the author of Titian they were 
 signed little John. Mackenzie quarrelled with 
 the Weekly Times proprietor, and who furnishes 
 them now, I know not. Mr. John Robertson, 
 a writer in the Westminster Review, was at 
 one time connected with the cheap Weekly 
 Journal, but like every one else that had to do 
 with Mr. S. the proprietor, he soon relin- 
 quished all association with it. 
 
288 LIONS ; LIVING AND DEAD. 
 
 Mr Reynolds is now himself the owner of and 
 editor of a cheap newspaper, which bears his 
 own name he is also a prominent leader of the 
 Chartists, and now that Feargus O'Connor has 
 gone mad, most probably his journal will be- 
 come the organ of that body. As a writer his 
 works will not perpetuate his name, for none of 
 them have vitality sufficient to reserve them 
 from the rubbish of the cheap and nasty school 
 of literature. 
 
 A little more than twelve months ago, I 
 was sitting in the private room of a London 
 Editor. The conversation turned on Editorial 
 heats and troubles, beside him was a large heap 
 of contribution from all quarters of the com- 
 pass, the old fellow himself would be puzzled 
 to make sense out of some of them whilst he 
 was penning a paragraph he tossed me a hand- 
 ful of the letters to amuse me, and while I was 
 hunting for such " curiosities of literature," 
 a knock at the door was heard " come in" 
 cried my friend, and an old gentleman entered. 
 
 " Sit down Mr. Egan, pray be seated" said 
 the Editor, and he handed the new arrival a 
 chair. 
 
 Egan Egan ! I muttered to myself, the 
 name is familiar enough to me, and I looked at 
 
" mysteries" of the LONDON PRESS. 289 
 
 the ancient gentleman and began to exercise my 
 powers of memory. 
 
 Mr. Pierce Egan," said the editor, intro- 
 ducing me, and then the truth flashed on my 
 recollections. Yes yes, it was plain enough 
 now, I remembered all about him, and as I 
 shook him by the hand I felt that I was grasp- 
 ing the hand of an ancient book acquaintance. 
 
 Let me describe this well known (by name) 
 character. 
 
 Apparently, he could not be far from seventy 
 years of age, if he was not quite that, he was 
 feeble and shaky as might be expected, but 
 there was a sort of jauntiness about the old 
 gentleman still, his grey eye was quick and 
 vivacious, and his brown wig had the old sport- 
 ing "cock," the eye-brows were large, the 
 nose a little hooked, and the lower lip so pro- 
 jected as to give a rather severe expression to 
 the countenance. The old boy was wrapped in 
 a large camlet cloak with a red collar, and he 
 hobbled with a stick. 
 
 There, thought I, as I quietly surveyed him, 
 is a man who has made some noise in his day, 
 who has, like others of his crest, built up for- 
 tunes for many others heedless of himself, and 
 who Tom Moore himself christened "the Plu- 
 tarch of the Ring." Five and twenty years ago 
 his " Life in London," drew for months toge- 
 
290 lions; living and dead. 
 
 ther crowded houses, and Bob Logic and Corin- 
 thian Tom were all the rage both made 
 the name of Pierce Egan famous. How many 
 young bloods, who tried to emulate the " doings' ' 
 of Bob and his friends, it ruined, no one knows ; 
 how many " Charlies,*" it caused to be de- 
 molished, it were vain to inquire. Pierce Egan 
 was for years the great sporting authority, his 
 word was law, his decision final in all cases 
 connected with London Life, or the Ring. 
 His " Fistiana" or " Chronicles of the Ring, in 
 five thick octavo volumes, a work now exceed- 
 ingly scarce, was a perfect compendium of all 
 matters connected with Fistic affairs in the 
 high and palmy days of pugilism, when Cully 
 Cribb, Molineaux, the Belchers, Pearce, Curtis, 
 and others, stood within the roped arena. 
 Pierce Egan lived to see the " Ring"*' disgraced, 
 if ever that could be disgraced which was in 
 itself disgraceful, for I do not believe that it 
 was ever otherwise than a hot-bed of vice. 
 Be this as it may, the sight of the far-famed 
 Pierce Egan took me back to old times, and I 
 could not but survey this veteran sporting 
 chronicler with a certain degree of interest. 
 
 The old gentleman was very lively and full 
 of anecdote. When I spoke of " Life in Lon- 
 don/' and its immense popularity, the old fire 
 blazed up, and when judiciously drawn out by 
 
" mysteries" of the L0>^D0N PftESS. 291 
 
 the editor, he related some of his reminiscences. 
 Poor old man, it seemed he had not, with all 
 his renown, amassed a sufficiency to exempt 
 him from the drudgery of the pen in his old 
 age, for he pulled from his coat pocket a bulky 
 lot of manuscript, which ho left for approval. I 
 saw it afterwards. As mi<:;ht bo expected, it 
 was mere twaddle pottering and therefore 
 useless, but he did not think so, evidently. 
 This must have been nearly if not quite, his 
 last literary effort, for about a month after- 
 wards I heard of his death. 
 
 A Pierce Egan, however, still lives I re- 
 fer to the son of him of whom I have been 
 speaking. For a long time he was known as 
 Pierce Egan the younger, but now, of course, 
 he has dropped the junior. He, like Reynolds, 
 is connected with cheap literature, being editor 
 of the " Home Circle." He is also the author 
 of " Wat Tyler." " Roderick Dhu,'^ and some 
 other romances of that class, some of which 
 have been reprinted in America. He is an 
 amiable man, and an accomplished artist. 
 
 There are some strange characters connected 
 with the London Press. The last time I 
 walked through that not very choice locality of 
 London Clare Market, in company with a 
 friend, the latter called my attention to a mi- 
 serable-looking object who was standing in the 
 
292 LIONS ; LIVING AND DEAD. 
 
 gutter eating catVmeatoiFa skewer. This young 
 man, for be appeared little more than thirty- 
 years of age, had a crownless andbrimless hat, 
 an old greyjacket, tattered and soiled, no waist- 
 coat nor shirt, and a ragged pair of pantaloons. 
 His feet were encased in neither shoes nor 
 stockings. As he stood there, in that cold 
 November foggy day, his eyes blue, his eyes 
 bloodshot, and with a week's beard on his dirty 
 face, the poor wretch looked a miserable object 
 indeed. 
 
 " Do you know him f asked P . 
 
 " Not I," I replied, but that moment the 
 man alluded to caught sight of and came limp- 
 ing up to us. 
 
 ' For God's sake," he stammered out, " give 
 me a sixpence, I'm dying for a drop of gin." 
 
 My friend tried to persuade him not to drink, 
 but he grew furious, and in a strong Irish ac- 
 cent, whined and begged so, that to satisfy him 
 the coin was given and we got away. 
 
 " In Heaven's name, who is that T was my 
 question when we got into Carey Street ; and 
 to my unutterable surprise, I learned that it 
 
 was no other than M , a gentleman who 
 
 had a regular engagement on one of the most 
 influential sporting papers in London, and the 
 author of several standard works on that par- 
 ticular subject, to which he devoted his great 
 
" MYSTKRIEs" OF TlIK LOUDON PRESS. 293 
 
 talents. I was informed that regularly about 
 every two months ho went " on the fly,'' as 
 it is termed sold his clothes, got such as I 
 saw him in, and then acted like a madman. 
 When sober, he ^as most fastidious in every- 
 thing, but drink completely metamorphosed 
 him. A more striking instance of a great 
 person debased by intemperance I never saw. 
 
 I have heard, without surprise, that M is 
 
 now dead. 
 
 Connected with the *' cheap press," is another 
 well-known character, whom, in London, '* not 
 to know, argues oneself unknown." *' Nichol- 
 son's Journal" must be familiar to every one 
 or ^cas ; for, writing, as I do, more than three 
 thousand miles from the Banks of the Thames, 
 I do not know whether it has ceased to exist or 
 otherwise. Nicholson is, as all the world 
 kuows, the celebrated Lord Chief Baron of the 
 Judge and Jury Club, which for years met at 
 the Garrick's Head, in Bow Street, but which 
 now nightly amuses the public at the " Coal 
 Hole.*" Mr. Nicholson is not one of the lean 
 and hungry looking school of authors, for he 
 has a remarkable amplitude of waistcoat, and 
 it is his boast that, so far as weight is con- 
 cerned, he is the heaviest judge on the English 
 bench. He is really a remarkably clever fellow, 
 and wields a most pungent pen. Some of his 
 
294 lions; living and lead. 
 
 sketches illustrative of Cockney life are capital, 
 and we only wish that he would abandon the 
 " Bench" and devote his talents to some really 
 good periodical. However, it is scarcely pro- 
 bable he will do this while* nightly, cigars, 
 brandy and water, and what not, come at his 
 call, and he remains as popular among the 
 " fast men" of London, as now. 
 
 Howitt has written " The Houses and Haunts 
 of certain Authors ;" he has not, however, no- 
 ticed one very favourite " haunt of certain 
 London authors and critics." Opposite Somer- 
 set House there is a certain spirit depot, where, 
 on Saturday evenings, especially, publishers, 
 authors, and artists connected with the weekly 
 cheapperiodicals, "most do congregate."" Should 
 the reader ever feel inclined to survey these 
 small " lions" of literature, he has but to push 
 back the doors and mingle with the crowd of 
 moustachied draughtsmen, pale-faced scribblers, 
 and keen-visaged publishers, who are sipping 
 spirits or pouring down porter. It is, in fact, 
 the " Exchange" for this class of worthies, 
 where the " paying" business between authors, 
 artists and publishers is transacted. 
 
295 
 
 CHAPTER XVIL 
 
 LITERART BREAKFAST. 
 
 A PLEASANT thing enough it must be to pursue 
 literature for its own sake and not as a means of 
 living. No one but they who have experienced 
 it can form any idea of the drudgery of the 
 pen, when one is compelled, in order to procure 
 the bread which perissheth, whether sick or 
 well, lame or lazy, to perpetually draw on the 
 bank of imagination, when hemmed in and 
 harassed by the fearful and actual realities of 
 life. Of all hard work this is the hardest of 
 all slavery this slavery of the pen is the most 
 galling. It is all very well to sit down when 
 in the humour and give play to the fancy 
 with a flowing pen, but when the brains are 
 " costive," when ideas wont come at one's call, 
 to be obliged to furnish so much copy by such 
 a time or starve is hard indeed. 
 
 There are some few authors who are happily 
 placed by Fortune beyond the " care for the 
 morrow'" who can work or otherwise, just as 
 
296 LIONS ; LIVING AND DEAD. 
 
 they please, without a fear for their " mutton." 
 It is to one or two of such that 1 would now 
 speak. 
 
 Of these I will first mention Eichard Monck- 
 ton Mihies, the graceful and beautiful poet. 
 This able member of Parliament is the ad- 
 mirable biographer of a kindred poet ^John 
 Keats. 
 
 Before I proceed to a personal description of 
 Mr. Milnes, let me present the reader with an 
 extract from Mr. Home's estimate of him as a 
 poet, an estimate which, however, in my opi- 
 nion, is not as high as it should be. " Mr. 
 Milnes' earlier poems are individual in expres- 
 sion and ideal in their general tone, and pro- 
 bably contain more essential poetry and more 
 varied evidence of their author'^s gifts than the 
 writings which it has since pleased him to 
 vouchsafe the public. He has since divested 
 himself of the peculiarities which offended some 
 critics, and has more studiously incarnated him- 
 self to the perception of readers not poetical. 
 The general character of his genius is gentle 
 and musing. The shadow of an academical 
 tree if not of a temple column, seems to lie 
 across his brows, which are bland and cheer- 
 ful nevertheless. He has, too, much real sen- 
 sibility, too much active sympathy with the 
 perpetual workings of Nature and humanity to 
 
A LITERARY BREAKFAST. 297 
 
 have any morbid moaning sensibility. Beauty 
 he sees always, but moral and spiritual beauty, 
 the light kernelled in the light, he sees su- 
 ))remely. Never will you hear him ask, in the 
 words of a great contemporary poet 
 
 *'And is there any moral shut 
 Within the bosom of a rose." 
 
 Because, while he would eschew, with that 
 contemporary, the vulgar utilitarianism of moral 
 drawing, he would perceive as distinctly as the 
 rose itself, and perhaps more distinctly, the 
 spiritual significance of its beauty. His philo- 
 sophy looks upward as well as round looks 
 upward because it looks round ; it is essentially 
 and specifically Christian. His poetry is even 
 ecclesiastical sometimes ; and the author of 
 " One Tract More,"" and his tendency towards 
 a decorative religion, are to be recognised in 
 the haste with which he lights a taper before 
 a picture, or bends beneath a " Papal Benedic- 
 tion." For the rest he is a very astringent 
 Protestant in his love for ratiocination, and he 
 occasionally draws out his reasons into a fine 
 line of metaphysics. He sits among the Muses 
 making reasons, and when Apollo plucks him 
 by the hair to incite him to some more purely 
 poetic work, then he signs them. With every 
 susceptibility of sense and fancy, and full of 
 N 2 
 
298 LIONS ; LIVING AND DEAD. 
 
 appreciations of art, he would often write pic- 
 torially, if he does not always write analytically. 
 Moreover, he makes sentiments as well as rea- 
 sons ; and whatever may be the nobility of 
 sentiment or thouf,dit, the words are sure to be 
 worthy of it. He has used metres in nearly 
 every kind of combination, and with results 
 almost uniformly, if not often exquisitely, har- 
 monious and expressive. There may be slight 
 want of suppleness and softness in his lighter 
 rhymes, and his blank verse appears to be de- 
 fective in intonation and variety, besides such 
 deficiencies, as we have previously suggested, 
 but the intermediate forms of composition sa- 
 tisfy the ear. With all this he is quite undra- 
 matic ; and in matters of character or story, 
 has scarcely ever gone the length, and that 
 never very successfully, of the ordinary ballad 
 writer. His poems, for the most part, are 
 what are termed " occasional," their motive-im- 
 pulse arising from without. He perceives and 
 responds, rather than creates. Yet he must 
 have the woof of his own personality to weave 
 upon. With the originality which every man 
 possesses who has strength to be true to his in- 
 dividuality, his genius has rather the air of 
 reflection than inspiration ; his muse is from 
 his lips, if there be any foam. Thoughtful and 
 
A LITERARY BREAKFAST. 299 
 
 self-possessed, instead of fervent and impulsive, 
 he is tender instead of passionate ; and when 
 he rises above his ordinary level of philosophy 
 and tenderness, it is into a still air of rapture 
 instead of into exulting tumults and fervours. 
 Even his love poems present a serene trans- 
 figuring of life instead of any quickening of the 
 currents of life ; the poet^s heart never beats so 
 tumultuously as to suspend his observation of 
 the beating of it. 
 
 " And the beating of my own heart 
 Was all the sound I heard." 
 
 The general estimate of him, in brief, is a 
 thinking, feeling man worshipping and lov- 
 ing as a man should gifted naturally, and re- 
 fined socially and singing the songs of his own 
 soul and heart, in a clear svveet serenity, which 
 does not want depth, none the less faithfully 
 and nobly that he looks occasionally from the 
 harp-strings to the music-book. The " Lay of 
 the Humble," " Long Ago," and other names 
 of melodies, strike upon the memory as softly 
 and deeply as a note of the melodies themselves ; 
 while, apart from these lyrics, he has written 
 some of the fullest and finest sonnets, not merely 
 of our age, but of our literature. 
 
 Mr. Milnes, regarding poetry as " the gods'* 
 most choicest dower," says of it, in his " Lences," 
 
300 LIONS ; LIVING AND DEAD. 
 
 "Poesy, which in chaste repose abides. 
 As in its atmosphere ; that placid flower 
 Thou hast exposed to passions fiery tides/'&c. 
 
 Here at once we discover Mr. Milnes's 
 theory, and the chief aim of his muse. Sappho 
 is blamed for steeping her verse in " passion's 
 fiery tides," because poesy is said to abide " in 
 chaste repose," as its proper atmosphere. By 
 this standard, therefore, is the poetry of Richard 
 Monckton Milnes to be measured : it is a 
 standard of inherent beauty, and he will be 
 found to attain it most completely. A short 
 extract from one of the earliest in his collection, 
 published ten years ago, will suffice to illustrate 
 this : 
 
 ** But when in clearer unison 
 
 That marvellous concord went on. 
 And gently as a blossom grows, 
 
 A frame of syllables uprose, 
 With a delight akin to fear, 
 
 My heart beat fast and strong, to hear 
 Two murmurers, beautifully blent, 
 
 As a voice and instrument 
 A hand laid lightly on two chords, 
 
 A voice that sobbed between its words, 
 ' Stranger, the voice that trembles in your ear, 
 
 You would have placed, had you been fancy free, 
 First in the chorus of the happy sphere. 
 
 The home of deified mortality. 
 
 * 
 
 Stranger, the voice is Sappho's weep, oh, weep, 
 That the soft tones of sympathy may fall 
 
 Into this prison of the sunless deep, 
 "Where I am laid in miserable thrall,' " 
 
A LITERARY BREAKFAST. .301 
 
 It is as a lyric and elegiac poet (in the an- 
 cient style of elegy), with a temperament rather 
 elegiac than lyric that Mr. Monckton Milnes 
 takes his place among the distinguished writers 
 of his age and country. Notwithstanding that 
 he has written " Poetry for the People," nei- 
 ther in the work in question, nor in any other, 
 has he given evidence of a genius calculated for 
 popular appeals. He might have called his 
 work " Poetry for the Philosophers," but the 
 very philosophers should be of the Upper House, 
 and accustomed to tread softly upon Plato's car- 
 ])ets, or they would be found inevitably defec- 
 tive, now and then, in their range of sympathies; 
 for Mr. Milnes is an aristocrat in literature and 
 modes of thought, though we are far from 
 meaning to insinuate that he merely " writes 
 like a gentleman ;" his mind and heart are too 
 strong in the "humanities." 
 
 So much for criticism, and now for recollec- 
 tions of this highly gifted poet, and most ami- 
 able and excellent man. 
 
 One day, in the summer of 1846, I received 
 an invitation from Mr. Milnes, inviting me to 
 breakfast with him on the following Saturday 
 morning. I need not say that I gladly em- 
 braced the opportunity of making the acquaint- 
 ance of this distinguished man ; and the more 
 especially so, as at the same time I should have 
 
302 LIONS ; LIVING AND DEAD. 
 
 the pleasure of meeting other individuals, well 
 known in the first literary circles, for it is, I 
 helieve, Mr. Milnes's custom to give literary 
 breakfasts a la Samuel JRogers. 
 
 Speaking of Samuel Rogers, I am reminded 
 that, in a former work of mine, I have chroni- 
 cled the particulars of a morning festival at his 
 house, the introduction to which sketch I may 
 quote here : some of the remarks are quite as 
 appropriate to the author of " Poems of Many 
 Years," as to the poet of " Memory.'' 
 
 " Who has not heard of the famous lobster 
 suppers of Pope, and the witty re-unions at 
 Tom's Coffee House, where ruffled and rapiered 
 gallants met to discuss liquor and literature, 
 chat and claret ? or, who has not longed to 
 make one of such a party, as that described, or 
 rather referred to, by the sprightly Lady Mary 
 Wortley Montague, who, with chosen associates, 
 
 *When the cares of the day are all pass'd. 
 
 Sit down with champagne and a chicken at last ;' " 
 
 and to what was far better, "the feast of 
 reason and the flow of soul." These "long- 
 ago" affairs have had their Boswells to chroni- 
 cle them ; and so graphic are some of the re- 
 ports of these synopsia, that we seem, whilst 
 perusing them, to "live over each scene." In 
 imagination we jostle against flower brocaded 
 
A LITERARY KKEAKKAST. 503 
 
 coats and embroidered vests our modern letjs 
 tret entangled in the voluminous folds of the 
 imple fardinf^ales and hoops, and bi<^h heels 
 startle us with their grotesque proportions. 
 
 The times have changed ; tlie days of the 
 blue-stocking clique are remembered as among 
 the things that were. Hannah More, Mrs. 
 Delaney, Mrs. Thrale, Mrs. Piozzi, and 
 Madame D'Arblay no longer sit sipping their 
 souchong, and listening to the oracular and 
 ponderous sentences of Doctor Johnson, or in- 
 dulging in sprightly sentimentalisms, or flip- 
 pant nothings. Willis's OofFee House is no 
 longer open to the Steeles, the Addisons, and 
 the rest of the Town wits. Tom's exists, but 
 is a lawyer's dining house. Ranelagb, with 
 its variegated leafy arcades and brilliantly 
 lighted bowers, is no more ; and all who gos- 
 sipped so delightfully, or talked so learnedly, 
 a few years ago, have passed away, leaving 
 legacies of wit, wisdom, and folly to their de- 
 scendants ; who, in the Cockney haunts of 
 Rosherville and Cremorne, make up for the 
 almost forsaken glories of Vauxhall, that latest 
 remnant of old-fashioned gaiety. 
 
 The times have greatly changed. Club 
 Houses have knocked the old coffee houses into 
 nothingness ; and literary coteries are broken 
 u^such literary coteries, we mean, as the 
 
.304 LIONS ; LIVING AND DEAD. 
 
 days to which reference has been made, could 
 boast of but there yet remain a few retreats 
 sacred to genius and talent, and the house of 
 Samuel Rogers is one of them. 
 
 Samuel Rogers is an exception to the almost 
 general rule that authors should be poor. The 
 author of " The Pleasures of Memory" is not 
 gifted, like Byron, with beauty of person ; so 
 far from it, he is the very opposite of " good- 
 looking," as it is termed ; but he is rich a 
 very Crcesus. The heart of one of the chief 
 London Banking Houses, he can draw cheques 
 alike on the Bank of the Muses, or on that of 
 the Old Lady in Threadneedle Street; and 
 what is extremely agreeable, find each duly 
 honoured on presentation. He has an exquisite 
 taste, and possesses, abundantly, the means of 
 gratifying it. Art lays her tributes at his feet, 
 and Genius is at his beck and call. For him 
 Science labours, and at his bidding Music 
 pours forth her most melodious offerings. He 
 possesses the magic talisman Money which 
 like the slave of the lamp, in the " Arabian 
 Nights' Entertainments," fulfils all his require- 
 ments, and surrounds him with all that heart 
 can wish. Verily, if wealth, taste, and refine- 
 ment can confer happiness on mortal Samuel 
 Rogers must be a happy man ! 
 
 If we may believe newspaper reports, authors 
 
A LliKUAKV lUiKAKFAST. 305 
 
 after all, are not so badly off as some would 
 have us believe. An American journal, speak- 
 ing of tbo positions of literary men in that 
 country, says, 
 
 '* Our authors have been for the last two 
 or three years building themselves substantial 
 edifices at a very encoura<ing rate. Bancroft, 
 besides buying a " free-stone"' house in the 
 city, has built a fine country-seat at Newport. 
 Headley has built a splendid mansion at New- 
 burgh. Melville has bought a farm at Stock- 
 bridge. Irving and Paulding have splendid 
 seats on the Hudson. Prescott has received 
 from the Harpers not less than o(?8,000 for his 
 book. Morse has been paid more than <i?4,000 
 from the sale of his books. Albert Barnes has 
 received from his Commentaries over i?4',000. 
 Professor Anthon has made over i?l 2,000, 
 Stephens over <*8,000 and the Abbots over 
 *3,000, &c., fcc. Ik Marvel, has received 
 not less than dP4,000 profits on his books, 
 although it is only a few years since he began 
 to write. Headley's profits must have already 
 exceeded <*6,000. Professor Davies has received 
 more than c*l 0,000 as the proceeds of the sale 
 of his books. The Tribune lately mentioned 
 that Mrs. Harriet Beecher Stowe had refused 
 i?2,000 for the copyright of a single novel. 
 And the Hst might be indefinitely extended."" 
 
306 lions; living and dead. 
 
 "Our authors" are the last persons in the 
 world on whose behalf a plea of poverty should 
 be made. English authors draw still larger 
 profits from the sale of their books. Macaulay 
 will clear at least <i'2,000 from his History. 
 Dickens will make more than half as much 
 from a single novel. And Bulvver, James, and 
 others pocket from one to two thousand pounds 
 on each of the many books they write." 
 
 We should be inclined to value this state- 
 ment cum grano salis. It is, however, not to 
 be doubted that literary men are not in the 
 main so badly off as some of them would have 
 us believe. The truth is, that in ninety-nine 
 cases out of a hundred, authors are improvi- 
 dent and unbusiness-like in their habits. Men, 
 like some whom we know, who get at least 
 800 a year, have no right to be poor. The 
 mischief of it is that men, knowing that they 
 have abundant brain-capital, squander their 
 money recklessly, and then have to " write the 
 dead horse"" to get more, and of course work 
 carelessly. Thus the market value of their 
 wares are injured, and embarrassment surely 
 follows. 
 
 Like Samuel Rogers Richard Monckton 
 Milnes is one of Fortune's favourites. His 
 father, also, a Richard Monckton Milnes, is a 
 man of considerable wealth, and formerly ocou- 
 
A LITERARY BUEAKFAST. 307 
 
 pied a seat in parliament, where lie greatly 
 distin<uisbed himself by his brilliant talents. 
 He has long retired from active life, but his 
 place in the Commons is well supplied by his 
 gifted son, who is an ornament to the political 
 as well as to the literary circle. With him, 
 however, in his senatorial character, we have 
 little to do ; it is as a Star in the hemisphere 
 of Literature that we regard him. 
 
 Ten o'clock was the hour appointed, and 
 shortly after the bells of Saint Martin in the 
 Fields had chimed that period of time, I stood 
 by Mr. Milnes's door in Pall Mall, nearly op- 
 posite the Reform Club House. A servant out 
 of livery opened the door, and ushered me into 
 a room on the first floor. I had been, it seem- 
 ed, too punctual, for the room received me 
 as its first master. Informing me that Mr. 
 Milnes had not yet left his room, but would 
 be down shortly, the servant left me alone. 
 
 The room, which overlooked St. James's 
 Square from a large, projecting, or bayed win- 
 dow, was spacious and handsomely furnished ; 
 heaps of books, busts, sketches and paintings 
 lined the walls, and loaded the tables. It was 
 evidently a bachelor's room ; not that it was 
 slovenly in its arrangements far from it but 
 there was an absence of that particular sort of 
 neatness, which female fingers alone can pro- 
 
808 LIONS ; LIVING AND DEAD. 
 
 duce. Everytliing around betokened the habi- 
 tation of an individual of exquisite taste, and 
 of a fine appreciation of the beautiful. 
 Through the foliage of choice flowers in the 
 window, and of the creepers which twined 
 around the pillars of the verandah without, 
 streamed the morning sunshine, giving to the 
 room a cheerful aspect It was just the place, 
 I thought, for a poet. 
 
 I sat some time alone ^for, on the previous 
 night, there had been a long debate at the 
 House, which Mr. Milnes did not quit until 
 after a late division, which accounted for his 
 late appearance. But the time did not hang 
 heavy on my hands. When I had finished 
 turning over a folio of prints, I strolled to the 
 window, and gazed into St. James's Square 
 a spot as secluded, thoughwithin two minutes' 
 distance of the roar of the Strand, that one 
 might have fancied one's self in the country 
 the songs of birds in the trees, and of warblers 
 in unseen cages, not a little favouring the idea. 
 
 I gazed into the Square with much interest; 
 for, associated with it, were many circum- 
 stances of interest. In it had resided Arabella 
 Churchill, the mistress of the Duke of York 
 Moll Davis, the dancer, and mistress of the 
 King Barillon, the French ambassador the 
 great Duke of Ormond Catherine Sedley, 
 
A LITERARY BREAKFAST. 309 
 
 mistress of James II., the Earl of Pembroke 
 Sir Robert Walpole the Duke of Roxburgh 
 Lord Castlereagh, and others of note. It 
 was at one time one of the most fashionable 
 squares in London witness the homely rhymes 
 which Dr. Johnson loved to repeat : 
 
 " When the Duke of Leeds shall married be 
 To a fine young lady of high quality. 
 For, happy will that young lady be 
 In his Grace of Leeds' good company ! 
 
 She shall have all that's fine and fair. 
 And the best of silk and satin shall wear : 
 And ride in a coach to take the air. 
 And have a house in St James's Square. 
 
 But the reminiscence in connection with 
 the square, which most interested me, was 
 that of the great lexicographer himself. As I 
 surveyed the pavement, I fancied Johnson's 
 burly form, and Savage's graceful figure, as the 
 ])air perambulated it in other days, or rather 
 the nights of their destitution. Boswell, in 
 his '' Life of Johnson," says, " He (the doc- 
 tor) told Sir Jolm Reynolds, that one night in 
 particular, when Savage and he vvalked round 
 St. James's Square, for want of a lodging, 
 they were not at all depressed at their situa- 
 tion ; but, in high spirits, and brimful of pa- 
 triotism, traversed the square for several hours, 
 
310 lions; living and dead. 
 
 inveighed against the ministers, and resolved 
 they would stand by their country."" 
 
 How different were the destinies of these two 
 houseless wanderers of the fashionable Square, 
 and how little did one of them think that he 
 would be indebted for his fame, principally to 
 the immortal biography of the other." But a 
 few years passed away, and Johnson stood, a 
 literary Colossus, on the enduring pedestal of 
 fame, and Savage, a murderer and a profligate, 
 ended his miserable career in the government 
 gaol at Bristol. 
 
 Whilst reasoning on such matters the door 
 opened, and a gentleman entered the apartment. 
 He was of medium height, rather inclined to 
 en hon pointy and plainly attired. Advancing 
 towards me he shook me cordially by the hand, 
 and made me feel at once at my ease. His 
 face was striking and indicative of great amia- 
 bility, as well as of a fine intellect. The hair 
 was dark and plainly disposed, the eyes were 
 also dark and sparkling with good nature, lower 
 lip pressed somewhat tightly against the upper, 
 giving an air of decision to the whole physiog- 
 nomy. On the whole, Mr. Milnes' personal 
 appearance was "taking," and I might say 
 fascinating. One great charm in his manner 
 was the utter absence of that hauteur so com- 
 monly displayed by men of birth and breeding. 
 
A LITERAllV BRKAKFAST. 311 
 
 lie appeared as gentle as a child, and kindness 
 seemed a very law of his nature. 
 
 We sat down, talked about Chatterton and 
 Keats, on a biography of which latter poet he 
 was at that time engaged, and I was delighted 
 to find that he fully agreed with me in my high 
 estimation of the "marvellous boy," of whom 
 I had written a " Life" which he was good 
 enough to speak approvingly of. This was a 
 subject in which Mr. Milnes and myself had 
 much feeling in common, for the subject of his 
 memoirs had dedicated, his *' Endymion,'' to the 
 memory of Thomas Chatterton, and Keats had 
 frequently in other portions of his works testi- 
 fied to his admiration of the Bristol Poet. I 
 may here mention that on the appearance of 
 Mr. Milnes^s Life and letters of Keats, which 
 were not published till long after the interview 
 to which I am referring, it was received with 
 universal approbation, as it well deserved to be, 
 seeing that it was a noble tribute from one of 
 the most graceful of living poets, to the memory 
 of the most imaginative of modern bards. It 
 is a work worthy to stand beside Southey's Life 
 of Nelson, and Lockhart's memoirs of liurus 
 praise cannot well go higher. 
 
 Our conversation was soon interrupted by the 
 arrival of other guests among the first of whom 
 were Mr. Herring, thecelebrated animal painter, 
 
S12 LIONS ; LIVING AND DEAD. 
 
 and Mr. Walter Savage Landor. The latter 
 gentleman's acquaintance I had previously made, 
 and my first interview with him I may briefly 
 advert to here. 
 
 In the year 1839, I happened to fall in with 
 a painting which I was led to believe was a 
 true portrait of Thomas Ohatterton. The 
 gentleman in whose possession it was, had 
 purchased it some years before in a broker's shop 
 and from certain circumstances connected with 
 the picture, its authenticity was considered un- 
 doubted. So fully did I believe in its genuine- 
 ness, that I had it engraved and prefixed to 
 my biography of the young Poet. After a 
 time, however, it came out that the purchaser 
 of the picture had been the dupe of a roguish 
 broker, who had picked up the portrait at a 
 sale for mere trifle, and after some " doctoring" 
 pased it oflTas a resemblance of the poet. Nor 
 were the proprietor of the picture and myself 
 the only parties deceived in the matter. At 
 that time there was living in Cathay, Bristol, 
 a very old gentleman named Pahner, who had 
 known Ohatterton well, he having been ap- 
 prenticed with him in the same house ; I 
 showed him the assumed likeness which he 
 pronounced to be exceedingly like Ohatterton. 
 Another and afar more acute observer was mis- 
 led. When, in the same year, 1839, Robert 
 
A LITERARY BREAKFAST. 313 
 
 Sou they, for the last time visited Bristol, he 
 called on me, and I showed him the painting, 
 ho appeared much struck with it, and in a letter 
 to Mr. Walter Sava<^e Landor,* dated "Buck- 
 land, March 31, of the same year, he says, 
 " The portrait of Chatterton, which Mr. Dix 
 discovered, identified itself if ever portrait did. 
 It brought his sister, Mrs, Newton, strongly to 
 my recollection. No family likeness could be 
 more distinctly marked, considering the dis- 
 parity of years." 
 
 In a letter to myself, dated April 3rd follow- 
 ing, Mr. Southey again referred to this por- 
 trait, and requested me lo send a proof of the 
 engraving when it should be finished, to his 
 friend, Mr. Landor who was at that time re- 
 siding at Clifton. I complied with his request, 
 and at the same time, also, forwarded proofs to 
 James Montgomery, and Ebenezer Elliott, both 
 of whom had in their works alluded to Chatter 
 ton, The bard of Sheffield alluded to the pre- 
 sent in a fine letter, in which he says, ** Some 
 years ago, I endeavoured to commemorate the 
 fate of Chatto'ton by some lines of mine, be- 
 ginning, 
 
 * A dying swan of Phoebus sings.' " 
 
 Vide Life and Correspondence of Robert Southey. 
 The Laureate has made a mistake in the letter ; I did not dis- 
 cover the portrait but met with it at Mr. Brackenridge'f, 
 O 
 
314 lions; living and dead. 
 
 Elliott forwarded a very characteristic letter, 
 full of energy, and fiery indignation against 
 Horace Walpole, for his treatment of the boy- 
 poet. " You have done well,"* he wrote, " to 
 castigate, that laced and ruffled rascal, Otranto 
 Walpole, for his brutality towards Chatterton 
 many thanks for the portrait of him poor 
 child ! it is a strange and striking countenance 
 it shall hang in my sanctum, which I shall be 
 happy to show you, should you ever visit Upper- 
 thorpe."" From Landor I received no acknow- 
 ledgement, but about a fortnight afterwards, 
 about noon, a thundering knock at my door an- 
 nounced a visitor, and a moment afterwards, 
 Mr. Walter Savage Landor's card was placed 
 in my hand. 
 
 Enter the author of " Ghebir,"* and of the 
 " Imaginary Conversations,*" He was atall man, 
 stout and large chested, I fancy that his dress 
 was sober black, but of this will not be quite 
 certain, for I was principally occupied in sur- 
 veying his head, who could help doing so I 
 should rather say that I fancily studied face as 
 well as head, for I am no phrenologist, and 
 would rather pin my faith to the sleeve of 
 Lavater, than to the turned back cuffs of organ- 
 seeking Spurzheim. 
 
 A bald, high forehead, dome-like at its sum- 
 mit short iron-grey locks on the temples < 
 
A LITERARY BREAKFAST. 315 
 
 deeply-set earnest eyes, somewhat resembling 
 those of Daniel Webster, the ^reat American 
 orator and Statesman a nose neither aquiline 
 nor Grecian, a mouth full of determination, and 
 a dominant expression of severity, all went to 
 make up the countenance of Walter Savage 
 Landor. His manners were, I thought, haughty 
 and aristocratical ; as tliou;i;h ho was quite 
 aware that he was a star of considerable mag- 
 nitude in the literary hemisphere. 
 
 " I have called, ^^ he said, '' to thank you for 
 the portrait of Chatterton, I expected to have 
 been in your neighbourhood before, to see Mr. 
 Cottle, which must be my excuse, for so long 
 neglecting to thank you." 
 
 He sat on the sofa, and we had a brief talk. 
 He appeared to me somewhat dogmatic and 
 dictatorial certainly he did not mince his 
 language with respect to some living writers 
 whose names were mentioned. 
 
 On my library table there chanced to be a 
 very fine copy of the works of Lord Byron, 
 which I had been engaged for some years in 
 illustrating with views, portraits, and auto- 
 graphs. Not many weeks before when Mr. 
 Southey visited me, I asked him to favour me 
 with his autograph in one of the interleaves. 
 Without a moment's hesitation, the Laureate 
 good humouredly sought out the " Vision of 
 
316 lions; living and dead. 
 
 Judgment,"" and on the interleaf opposite one 
 of the most bitter personal allusions to himself, 
 wrote his name and the date of the day and 
 year. I knew not enough of Landor to venture 
 on a similar freedom, and so did not ask him to 
 enrich my copy with his autograph ; besides I 
 remembered who had described him as 
 
 " That deep-mouthed Bcetian Savage Landor !" 
 
 By chance, the volume lay on the table, just 
 beside his elbow. He carelessly turned over 
 its leaves. On Southey's autograph meeting 
 his glance, his brow darkened, and with con- 
 siderable vehemence, he shut the book, exclaim- 
 ing : 
 
 " Byron was a scoundrel !" 
 
 There were two opinions on that subject, but 
 I could not, with any propriety, argue the 
 question just then, it struck me, however, as 
 a rather harsh expression of opinion ; but Lan- 
 dor is noted for this sort of thing. When a 
 Rugby boy he was famous for his wilful energy 
 and self-dependent force of character, accom- 
 panied by physical power and activity, which 
 have been continued through manhood, and 
 even up to the present time have exerted an in- 
 fluence upon his genius of a very peculiar kind 
 a genius seeming to be capable of mastering 
 all things except its own wilful impulses. 
 
A LITERARY BREAKFAST. 317 
 
 Whilst we were passin^^^away the lialf-hours 
 before breakfast, at Mr. Milues's, the conversa- 
 tion chanced to turn on Napoleon, and Landor 
 gave us a graphic description of the great war- 
 rior's appearance in his day of adversity. 
 *' I was," said he, *' conversing with a friend in 
 the city of Tours, near the Prefecture, when a 
 carriage dashed up to the door, and to my 
 amazement, who should hastily descend from 
 it, but Napoleon in disguise only a single ser- 
 vant accompanied him. He was at that time 
 dethroned and deserted, and on his way to em- 
 bark, as he intended, for America. It was not 
 the first time I had seen him, for I was present 
 at the ceremony when he was made First Con- 
 sul for life. How differently did he look now, 
 when flying and disgraced. The people of Tours 
 were most hostile to him, but as it happened, 
 not a soul except myself recognized him." Mr. 
 Landor had always felt a hatred towards Buona- 
 parte, and now he had but to point one finger 
 at him, and it would have done what all the 
 artillery of twenty years of war had failed to 
 do. The people would have torn him in pieces. 
 Landor was too "good an hater," and too noble 
 a man, to avail himself of such an opportunity. 
 He held his breath and let the hero pass. 
 
 Mr. Landor now seldom appears in print. 
 The recent mission of Kossuth seems to have 
 
318 LIONS ; LIVING AND DEAD. 
 
 
 
 cheered up his ener<ries, and the lines to the 
 President of France, on his refusing to let the 
 Hungarian pass through that country on his 
 way to England, are remarkably powerful, and 
 evince no abatement of vigour. The latest 
 lines from his pen are the following, which are 
 inserted here, rather as a specimen of Mr. 
 Lander's octogenarian vigour, than with any 
 sympathy with their praise be-spattered subject. 
 
 OIT KOSSUTH'S VOYAGE TO AMERICA. 
 
 Rave over other lands atid other seas. 
 
 Ill-omened, black-wing'd breeze ! 
 
 But spare the friendly sails that waft away 
 
 Him who was deem'd the prey 
 
 Of despot dark as thou one sending forth 
 
 The torturers of the north, 
 
 To fix upon his Caucasus once more 
 
 The demi-god who bore 
 
 To sad humanity Heaven's fire and light, 
 
 Whereby should re-unite 
 
 In happier bonds the nations of the earth ; 
 
 Whose Jove-like brow gave birth 
 
 To that high wisdom, whence all blessings flow 
 
 On mortals here below. 
 
 Rock not, Boreal breeze, that labouring breast 
 
 On which, half dead, yet i-est 
 
 The hopes of millions, and rest there alone. 
 
 Impiously every throne 
 
 Crushes the credulous ; none else than he 
 
 Can raise and set them free. 
 
 bear him on in safety and in health! 
 
 Bear on a freight of wealth 
 
A LITERARY BREAKFAST. 319 
 
 Sucb as no vessel yet hath ever borne ; 
 
 Although with banuer tora 
 
 He urges through tempestuous waves his way ; 
 
 Yet shall a brighter day 
 
 Shine on hitn in his own reconquered field ; 
 
 Releuting Fate shall yield 
 
 To constftut virtue. Hungary ! no more 
 
 Thy saddest loss deplore ; 
 
 Look to the star-crown'd Genius of the West, 
 
 Sole guardiau of the opprest. 
 
 O ! that one only nation dared to save 
 
 Kossuth, the true and brave J 
 
 To return to our literary breakfast party : 
 When we sat down to the " round table, 
 poetry, painting, and music had their respective 
 representatives in the charmed ring." Next to 
 me sat a gentleman of apparently silent and 
 retired habits; his hair was thin and light, with 
 a slightly yellowish tint. The eyes were blue, 
 or bluish grey, the nose long, and the mouth 
 small. An expression of almost melancholy 
 pervaded the countenance. This was Mr. Ser- 
 geant Kinglake, author of " Esther," one of the 
 most delightful books of Eastern travels ever 
 written. Mr. Kinglake listened to, rather than 
 joined in the conversation. He is a barrister, 
 on the Oxford Circuit, I believe, and in all 
 probability, will one day wear the ermine. 
 
 Opposite Kinglake was Thackeray, of whom 
 I have elsewhere written in this volume ; and 
 next to him, Thomas Babington Macaulay, 
 
320 LIONS ; LIVING AND DEAD. 
 
 who talked much and well. No one, to look at 
 this great writer, would suppose him capable of 
 producing such gorgeous pictures on the his- 
 toric page. He is heavy looking and corpulent, 
 but when he speaks his face brightens up, and 
 you see that a man of genius is before you. On 
 this occasion he talked much and well ; indeed, 
 he almost monopolised all the conversation ; but 
 who could not have been content to listen, when 
 -such a man was the speaker ? 
 
 It is said, but how truly I know not, that 
 Macaulay writes many of his most brilliant 
 articles in the streets that is, he studies them 
 whilst threading the crowds of the Metropoli- 
 tan thoroughfares. It is certain that he is 
 often to be seen, with a large umbrella in his 
 hand, thrusting his hurley form through all 
 opposing obstacles, as he drives along the 
 Strand, or Fleet-Street. If, reader, you are 
 
 a frequenter of the Hotel, Greenwich, 
 
 you will often see, in the coffee-room of that 
 establishment, a stout gentleman, seated at a 
 solitary dinner table, with a pint of sherry 
 before him. His large grey eyes have evi- 
 dently "speculation" in them; but he ad- 
 dresses himself to no one, excepting to the 
 waiter, for a fresh supply of creature comforts. 
 Presently he leans back in his chair, and with 
 looks bent on the ceiling, he sits in a " brown 
 
A LITER A 11 Y bUEAKKAST. 321 
 
 Btudy," from which, after some time, ho sud- 
 denly starts, thumps tlie mahogany table with 
 the empty decanter, to the imminent hazard of 
 the crystal, and in a loud voice demands to 
 know what he has to pay. The bill settled, he 
 thumps down his hat over his bullet-shaped 
 head, grasps his great umbrella, and stumping 
 it on the floor as he ^oes, takes his somewhat 
 carelessly attired form out of the room, whilst 
 more particular people stare, and wonder " who 
 that odd man can be T That " odd man" is 
 Thomas Babington Macaulay,the greatest writer 
 of his time ; and the coffee-room of the - 
 is one of his favourite haunts. 
 
 Several members of parliament were present, 
 whose names it is not necessary to particu- 
 larize ; they were in high glee : for, one of the 
 honourable representatives, more noted for his 
 wealth than for his intelligence, had made an 
 exhibition of himself, in the House, by entering 
 it when pretty well primed. One of the sto- 
 ries told of this worthy elicited great mirth. 
 At that time, the '* Protection" debates were 
 
 going on in the House, and as Mr. H was 
 
 walking down Parliament Street on his way to 
 vote, " pretty well corked," as the saying is, a 
 nymph of the pave saluted the senator in 
 French, a language of which the honourable 
 gentleman was perfectly ignorant, but which 
 o 2 
 
322 LIONS ; LIVING AND DEAD. 
 
 the frail fair one rendered intelligible enough 
 by " nods, and becks, and wreathed smiles." 
 
 " Get along, you foreign !" (and 
 
 here followed an epithet unfit for ears polite) 
 angrily exclaimed the M. P., at the same time 
 rudely repulsing the lady. No sooner had he 
 got rid of the nuisance than an English girl 
 stepped up to him, clapped him on the back, 
 and enthusiastically cried out " God Almighty 
 bless you, Mr. , for protecting native in- 
 dustry !" Then sundry jokes were retailed re- 
 specting the lady of the said law-maker, who 
 abused Mr. Wyld, the geographer, who, she 
 said, had sent her, instead of Si pair of globes, 
 which she had ordered, two odd ones ! 
 
 " But the best story about Mrs. ," said 
 
 one of the gentlemen present, " is that affair of 
 the Guildhall dinner. She, with her husband, 
 was invited to the Lord Mayor's banquet, on 
 the ninth of November. When Lord John 
 Russell entered the hall, there was vociferous 
 
 cheering. 'There,' said Mr. ,' comes the 
 
 Prima Donna /' A burst of laughter at this 
 free translation of the ' Premier' followed, 
 which somewhat nettled Mrs. , who smil- 
 ingly apologized for her husband's mistake, by 
 saying, apologetically, ' Gentlemen, you must 
 
 be good enough to excuse Mr. 's ignorance, 
 
 for he does not understand French /' " 
 
A LITERARY BRKAKKAST. 323 
 
 Very few things are pleasanter, in their way, 
 than such rc-unions as those of which I have 
 heen speaking. Mr. Mihies's literary break- 
 fasts are perfect, in their way ; and if not as 
 sumptuous as those of Samuel R)ger3, are far 
 more sociable and agreeable, to those who pre- 
 fer quiet conversation to crowds Of Mr. 
 Milnes himself, too much can scarcely be said 
 in commendation. There is not, in the House 
 of Commons, a more able member, though his 
 modesty prevents his making himself as con- 
 spicuous as some I might name, who do not 
 possess a tithe of his qualifications. Many of 
 his speeches have been publisshed ; and, when- 
 ever he rises, he is always sure to have the ear 
 of the House : for, by all parties, he is highly 
 esteemed. In private life, few men are more 
 estimable. He is one of those who deserve to 
 be a favourite of Fortune ; for, the good he 
 does, without ostentation or parade, is great. 
 Many a graceful and kindly act has he per- 
 formed for less fortunate literary men than 
 himself; for, his sympathies are ever with the 
 suffering and the distressed. All honour to 
 Richard Monckton Milnes ! a true poet an 
 accomplished legislator, and an ornament to 
 the exalted circles in which he moves. 
 
324 
 
 CHAPTER XVIII. 
 
 A LITERARY SOIREE. THE BARTHOLOMEWS DR. 
 
 MACKENZIE ELIZABETH YOUATT CHARLES HOO- 
 
 TON HARDING LANDSEER CAMILLA TOULMIN 
 
 MR. AND MRS. LOVELL GRACE AQUILAR, &C. 
 
 Not a thousand m\\e from Charlotte Street, 
 Portland Place, resided a lady and a gentleman 
 well known in literary and artistic circles. 
 Every year, at a certain period, it is their 
 custom to give a brace of soirees, when nume- 
 rous friends crowd their rooms, to discuss ideas, 
 wafer-cake, lemonade, souchong, and scandal 
 ^good-natured gossip, of course. What would 
 a soiree be without it? To one of these re- 
 unions I now beg to introduce the readers, but 
 before doing so, let me make a morning call on 
 the host and hostess. 
 
 In a large apartment at the back of the 
 house, the window of which opens into a small 
 garden, sit, at separate tables, a lady and gen- 
 tleman both are engaged in painting, the 
 
A LITERARY SOIREE. 325 
 
 form or a miniature, the latter a group of 
 flowers. Let me, for a inomont or two, paint 
 also, and sketch the portraits of the pair the 
 lady first, of course. 
 
 She is rather below the medium hei^jht not 
 quite as sylph-like in fi^ure as the pretty girl 
 upon whom her pencil is employed, but posi- 
 tively plump I was going to say rather in- 
 clined to en bon pointy but what need for di- 
 gressing from truth in a drapery of French 
 phrases, when a good honest English word 
 expresses exactly what is meant ? Her face is 
 w.iat the Scotch might call " sonsie'*'' that is, 
 it is a right, open, good-natured face one that 
 when it laughs, laughs all over. The lady's 
 eyes are about the merriest we ever saw, and 
 her mouth is all wreathed with smiles ; the 
 nose is rather small, and the chin double. The 
 cheeks fresh coloured, and the forehead ample. 
 Now, when we add to this a hearty, frank, 
 unaffected manner, and a fascinating address, 
 the reader will be enabled to form some idea of 
 the personal appearance of a lady whose poems 
 they must often have met with in some of the 
 periodicals of the day Mrs. Valentine Bar- 
 tholomew, 
 
 Now for a companion portrait. 
 
 Near the lady, and at another window, sits 
 a gentleman, busily occupied in transferring to 
 
326 LIONS ; LIVING AND DEAD. 
 
 paper the tints and forms of a group of came- 
 lias, cacti, roses, lilies, and other choice flowers, 
 which are carefully arranged in a porcelain vase 
 before him. He, too, is short, and somewhat 
 corpulent but as he leaves his seat to welcome 
 70U, it is evident that he is compactly built, 
 and " brisk as a bee." A very pleasant coun- 
 tenance he has, and though he is no longer 
 young, almost juvenile in its expression. His 
 very well-shaped head is covered with iron- 
 grey short hair, his eyes are large and light, 
 and his whole countenance bland and bene- 
 volent. There is not an atom of that pro- 
 fessional hauteur about him which some artists 
 exhibit. He seems as free from affectation of 
 anykind as a child. This is Mr. Valentine 
 Bartholomew, flower-painter to Queen Vic- 
 toria, and incomparably the best delineator of 
 the glories of field and garden now living. 
 " Every body goes to Mrs. Val.'s soirees," 
 
 said Dr. to me; "and the first evening's 
 
 cram is the most select." Now, as I had been 
 invited with the first batch of noticeables, I 
 felt somewhat complimented of course. What, 
 however, made me particularly felicitate myself 
 on my " luck," was the circumstance of my 
 having a companion included in the invite to 
 whom I was anxious to show some of the lite- 
 rary lions of London. 
 
A LITEHARY SOIREE. 327 
 
 Tho church clocks were striking nine, when 
 we descended from our cab, and entered Mr. 
 Bartholomew's dwelling. With some difficulty 
 we ascended the staircase, and found the suite 
 of apartments, on the drawing- room floor, 
 already pretty well filled. The lady and gen- 
 tleman of the house, of course, first received 
 our respects ; and then we strolled through the 
 crowd, which was every minute becoming more 
 dense, to see who were present that we knew. 
 
 We speedily enough found plenty of ac- 
 quaintances, but were glad enough, at least our 
 fair companion was, after half an hour's crush- 
 ing, to find an unoccupied seat, near the piano, 
 where Madame Caradori Allain was trilling an 
 Italian melody. Of this brilliant songstress I 
 am sure I need say nothing in praise ; her fame 
 is too well founded to render my poor laudation 
 of value. I thought, however, her voice too 
 powerful for the room, and the sweet piano 
 passages were lost in the unceasing buzz of con- 
 gratulations and conversation. Whilst 1 was 
 gazing on the shifting scene, a voice with a 
 half-Irish accent accosted me. 
 
 The voice belonged to a gentleman with a 
 pleasant face enougli, the eyes of which were 
 almost concealed by a pair of spectacles. He 
 was well dressed, and seemed to know and b 
 known by every one in the room. A brilliant 
 
o28 LIONS ; LIVING AND DEAD. 
 
 diamond rin^ sparkled on his finger, a showy 
 brooch decorated his shirt-front, and, in short, 
 he appeared rather profuse in jewellery. His 
 tones were short and sharp, and he had a way of 
 glancing shrewdly, with knitted brows, at every- 
 body and everything. This was a gentleman 
 who had filled the post of editor of a good many 
 provincial newspapers ; had written some tole- 
 rable poems, an indifferent " Art-Novel," and 
 had, during the railway panic of 1845, acted as 
 secretary of some one of the numerous compa- 
 nies. He was a great Autograph collector, and, 
 on the whole, what the Yankees would call a 
 " smart man." At the precise period of which 
 I am speaking, he was connected with the 
 London " Weekly Times," for which he wrote 
 the " Littlejohn" letters ; and he has since 
 published " Mornings at Malvern.**' This was 
 Dr. Eobert Shelton Mackenzie. 
 
 As we were lounging in the comparatively 
 quiet corner, a young lady issued from the 
 throng, and gladly sought the same shelter. 
 She was, I should think, about one or two 
 and twenty years of age, very fragile in figure, 
 and exceedingly delicate looking; yet slight 
 and frail as she evidently was in her body, 
 her face gave evidence of mental endowments 
 of no common order. Her face was oval- 
 shaped, and over her pale high forehead was 
 
A LITERARY SOIREE. 329 
 
 braided dark brown bair ; tbe eyes were largo 
 and grey, tbe nose Grecian, and tbe montb 
 pensive it its expression. Indeed, a tissue 
 of melancboly appeared to be cast over the 
 entire countenance, wbicb migbt, bowever, 
 have been tbe result of debility. Tbe slight, 
 almost girlish figure, was simply attired so 
 simply, tbat tbe very plain dress was almost 
 noticeable among tbe gay and gauzy robes 
 tbat rustled in all parts of tbe room ; and it 
 was relieved by no ornaments whatever. The 
 lady was Miss Elizabeth Youatt, a very sweet 
 and graceful writer, as every magazme reader 
 knows. 
 
 Some year or two before Miss Youatt bad 
 written a novel, in tbree volumes, the name of 
 which I at this moment forget ; and, writing 
 as I do, in a log-cabin, in tbe heart of an 
 American forest, where I cannot get access 
 to a " London Catalogue," I am unable to 
 procure the required information. However, 
 the matter is not of much consequence, for 
 Miss Youatt, I believe, has only written one 
 three volume book, and the reader will easily 
 ascertain what tbat was. On tbis occasion of 
 our meeting I happened to mention the book, 
 and expressed a regret that I had not as yet 
 been enabled to meet with it, on which Miss 
 Youatt remarked that she was glad of it, and 
 
330 LIONS ; LIVING AND DEAD. 
 
 hoped I never should fall in v^ith it. I after- 
 wards learned that, although the work in 
 question was quite unexceptionable, in every 
 way, its authoress had, since its publication, 
 become extremely reli<j;ious, and, in conse- 
 quence, dissatisfied with her previously pub- 
 lished opinions. She herself expressed to me 
 her regret that she had ever written the novel. 
 
 Miss Youatt was the daui^diter of William 
 Youatt, the celebrated author of " Works on 
 the Horse, the Pig, &c.," published by Mr. 
 Charles Knight. I have heard and have reason 
 to believe the statement, that in these literary 
 labours his daughter's pen was of eminent ser- 
 vice to him. As a practical man he is not to 
 be surpassed in his particular line, and he held 
 the office of veterinary surgeon to the Queen, 
 but he was better in the stable than at the 
 desk. Every one must remember his dwelling 
 in the New Road. His end was melancholy, 
 he having committed suicide during a fit of 
 temporary derangement of mind. 
 
 Glad for a little time to get away from the 
 heated room, we pushed our way down stairs, 
 to an apartment where refreshments were laid, 
 and soon made one of a little party, who had 
 drawn a small table into a recess, and were com- 
 fortably seated round it, discussing pmick a la 
 Bomaine, One of the punch bibbers was 
 
 \ 
 
A LITERARY SOIREE. 331 
 
 Charles Hooton, a gentleman not extensively 
 known in literary circles, but one, who, had he 
 been a little more prudent, might have com- 
 manded a very high position. I first met Hooton, 
 some years ago, by mere chance, at an Hotel, at 
 Devizes, in Wiltsliire, in which town he was 
 editing a Conservative newspaper. He had, 
 however, some disagreement with the proprie- 
 tor, and left for London. The readers of 
 *' Tait's Magazine" may probably remember 
 the appearance, some years ago, in that serial, 
 of some " Passai;es from the life of Bilbury 
 Thurland ;"*' two especially, entitled "Sam 
 Pogson's Game-cock,"" and " Sam Pogson's 
 Courtship,'*'* These were from Hr. Hooton'*s 
 pen, and were acknowledged to be admirable 
 of their kind. More racy specimens of genuine 
 humour we have never read. " Bilbury Thur- 
 land'*' was afterwards published in three vo- 
 lumes ; but it had been pruned down, and half 
 of its force and fun was lost in the injudicious 
 polishing. Hooton wliilst in London contri- 
 buted largely to some Magazines ; but he was 
 too improvident to make much head-way. At 
 the time I am now speaking of, he looked 
 haggard and care-worn. His long, dark hair 
 was ill-arranged, his pale forehead furrowed, 
 and his large blue eyes bloodshot and dim. 
 " I'm not fit to be out," he said, " but I'm 
 
.332 LIONS ; LIVING AND DEAD. 
 
 less miserable in a crowd than at home ; and, 
 besides, here was some relief from those cursed 
 duns.'' He drank freely of the punch, but it 
 was not potent enough for him, and he went 
 out to procure some brand}' at a neit];hbouring 
 public-house, but did not return. I heard after- 
 wards that he remained playing at cards with 
 gome boon companions until morning. Poor 
 fellow, I saw him only once after that ; it jvas 
 at one of Julien's concerts, when he was, from 
 some cause or other, half wild with excitement. 
 A few days subsequently, I saw in the papers 
 an account of his death. It was said that, by 
 accident, he had taken an over dose of morphine 
 which potent narcotic he had latterly been in 
 the habit of using to produce sleep. From 
 what I knew about him, I was but little sur- 
 prised, though greatly shocked to hear of the 
 sad aiFair. 
 
 I remember that Hooton made us all laugh 
 excessively, by an anecdote he told us that 
 evening of a certain versifier, who I cannot for 
 the life of me call a poet, though he has been 
 be-puffed and be-praised as much or more than 
 any other man I ever knew. I allude to a 
 gentleman who now officiates as minister of a 
 fashionable London Chapel, and whose " Sa- 
 tanic" rhodomontade, some years ago, nauseated 
 every hater of humbug. The individual in 
 
A LITERABY SOIREE. S33 
 
 question, was, in former times, not quite so 
 comfortably situated as now, and it happened 
 that he was frequently indebted for a week tea 
 widow, who having some knowledge of his 
 antecedents, pitied the needy young gentleman. 
 On one occasion, the poet dropped in about 
 tea-time, and as a " treat," the poor widow 
 produced three genuine Yarmouth bloaters, 
 which she informed the young man, a friend, 
 knowing she was remarkably fond of them, 
 had that day sent her, as a little present. To 
 share her good luck with her guest, the kind 
 lady broiled the three and placed them on the 
 table ; but whilst she was brewing the congou, 
 the selfish author transferred the trio to his 
 own plate, and heedless of a mite for the widow, 
 voraciously devoured them all. It is not often 
 
 I go to chapel, which I visit when in 
 
 London, as I should any other show-place, for 
 the sake of amusement ; but when I do, as I 
 look at the glossy curls, and lace-edged lawn, 
 and stitched folds of the gown of the preacher, 
 and listen to his affected drawls, involuntarily I 
 have a vision of the same individual hurriedly 
 bolting three red herrings, and of the rueful 
 visage of the widow ; and I fear that the ser- 
 mon tends but little to my edification. 
 
 " Who is that tall fine looking man V* I 
 asked of a friend near me, and I directed his 
 
334< LIONS ; LIVING AND DEAD. 
 
 attention to a gentleman of quite a striking 
 appearance. He was talking to George Cruik- 
 shank, who in dress, for George is not an 
 adonis in this respect was quite the opposite. 
 " That is Harding the artist," was the reply, 
 and I surveyed this extremely clever painter 
 with much interest. His face was exceedingly 
 indicative of intellect, and I have seldom seen 
 a more attractive looking personage. Cruik- 
 shank himself I have referred to in another 
 part of this volume, but here is another sketch 
 of him from the pen of a trans- Atlantic tourist, 
 which I have just met with. It will be seen 
 that in respect of dress, the American notions 
 and my own do not exactly coincide. We 
 have alluded to one of the causes of Mr. Cruik- 
 shank's popularity as being his friendship for 
 the people. He is radical to the core, and 
 such is his devotion to Liberalism, that he has 
 invariably refused to caricature any man who 
 is a true friend of progress, or to allow his 
 talents to be used in any manner or shape 
 against the cause of Progress. In this he is 
 like another distinguished artist, Richard Doyle, 
 a Catholic. When the Anti-Catholic Agita- 
 tion swept over England, Punchy the journal of 
 wit and humour, with which he was profes- 
 sionally connected, came out so decidedly 
 against Popery, that the faithful Doyle left it 
 
A LITERAUY SOIBEE. 3t?5 
 
 to his pecuniar}* hurt. Protestants admired 
 his consistency, while t)iey deplored his reli- 
 gious principles and belief. 
 
 The ackno\vled:ed talent of Cmiksbank is 
 such, that he has ten times the employment 
 offered him that he can execute, and sets his 
 own prices. For what once he used to receive 
 five dollars, he now gets fifty. His sense of 
 the ludicrous is excessively keen he has no 
 superior in London in that faculty. He can- 
 not walk in the streets a half mile without 
 picking up some irrotesque figure, or face, 
 where ordinary men would have seen nothing 
 worthy of observation. A few years ago he 
 went down to Manchester to attend a great 
 Anti-Corn- Law Meeting, and convulsed the 
 immense audience with laughter, by rising in 
 his odd way, and telling them that " he had 
 come to Manchester, and attended the meeting 
 that night in a professional manner^ and that 
 from what he had seen, he had no doubt that 
 he should be well paid for his trouble !" 
 
 A London writer remarking upon him says, 
 that he is the only man he knows who is equal 
 to the class of under cabmen in London. This 
 class is the most impudent and insulting of any 
 to be found on the face of the earth ; but George 
 Cruikshank is always ready for them. If they 
 bluster and scold, he imitates them bo exactly 
 
336 LIONS ;- LIVING AND DEAD. 
 
 and thoroughly, that they are glad to let him 
 off without cheating him out of an extra six- 
 pence, as they generally do their customers. 
 
 Mr. Cruikshank is very eccentric, and from 
 this fact many people think him cross and un- 
 mannerly ; but such is not the case. He has 
 a warm heart and a generous hand, but he is 
 extremely odd. 
 
 In person he is well made ; about the mid- 
 dle height, and has light-coloured hair. He 
 has a very expressive face the eye is drollery 
 and keenness combined. He has a pale coun- 
 tenance, handsome whiskers, a good but re- 
 ceding forehead, and a good general figure. 
 He always dresses well, very well some say 
 foppishly, but it is our opinion that those who 
 say so mistake a rich and flowing style of dress 
 for foppishness. In the main portions of Lon- 
 don, if a person dares to patronize a French 
 tailor, he is at once accused of foppishness, 
 while those who cling to the barbarous styles 
 of fashion in London are gentlemen of taste! 
 A portion of the aristocracy are so much in 
 France, however, that they imbibe French 
 notions in dress, as well as in some more im- 
 portant matters. 
 
 The devotion of Mr. Cruikshank to the cause 
 of Temperance is noble and distinguished. The 
 Times has deigned to point its thunder at him 
 
A LITERARY 80IREK, 337 
 
 in a leading article, but he has bad bis revenge in 
 dissecting The Times on the platform at Exeter 
 Hall, and it certainly is not saying too much 
 (poor an orator as the artist is,) to say that he 
 does not come out of the fray second best. The 
 friends of Temperance appreciate his philan- 
 thropy equally with his genius. 
 
 Talking of one artist reminds me of another. 
 At a later period of the evening, I was intro- 
 duced to an old gentleman by my hostess, with 
 whom I sat down at a table covered with draw- 
 ings and engravings. He was quite venerable, 
 and had one of the finest and most striking 
 heads I ever beheld ; it was partially bald, but 
 from the temples streamed loug silver locks, 
 which fell on the collar of an old fashioned 
 coat. A pair of keen grey eyes gleamed from 
 beneath large bushy brows, with a lustre almost 
 undiminished by age. The nose was aquiline 
 and the mouth slightly retracted from the loss 
 of teeth. It was a head which a painter would 
 like to make a study of indeed it had often 
 served that purpose to the old gentleman'^s own 
 sons, for my companion was the father of the 
 Landseers. 
 
 He had been a noted artist himself in his 
 day, and had delivered lectures on engraving 
 before the Royal Academy. In later years he 
 had instructed Queen Victoria in etching, but 
 
o8S LIONS ; LIVING AND DEAD. 
 
 owing to his impression that he had not been 
 treated with due consideration, he had refused 
 to attend his royal pupil any more this was 
 likely enough, for he seemed a positive sort of 
 old gentleman, with very little of the suaviter 
 ill modo in his composition. The story ran that 
 he was desired to attend at the palace with some 
 etching needles of a novel construction, for the 
 purpose of giving a lesson, and that after he had 
 done so, one of the ladies of honour came to 
 him in an ante room stating her Majesty desired 
 to know their price seven and sixpence was 
 named, and presently three half crowns were 
 sent to the artist, who would not, however, 
 pocket the insult of a seven and sixpenny fee 
 for his trouble. He turned on his heel and 
 never entered the precincts of Buckingham 
 Palace again. 
 
 Mr. Landseer is exceedingly deaf, and the 
 circumstance rendered conversation with him, 
 especially in such a place, almost impossible. 
 From w^hat little, however, I heard, I should in- 
 fer that he w^as exceedingly shrewd and well 
 iaformed, his memory is, it is said excellent, and 
 his store of anecdotes great and amusing ; he is 
 vary proud of his sons, especially of Edwin, 
 and well he may be. 
 
 Once more in the large room upstairs, and 
 now we sit tete-a-tete with a very prolific and 
 
A LULUAttY SOIREE. S'-VJ 
 
 well known authoress, and the editress of a 
 thshionablo magazine. It is Miss Camilla 
 Toulmin, by which, her maiden-name, she is 
 best known. Since I last met her she has 
 become by marriage Mrs. Newton Crossland. 
 
 A very intellectual looking lady is Mrs. 
 Crossland, not exactly handsome, nor indeed 
 pretty, but extremely interesting ; her eyes are, 
 however, remarkably fine, possessing great depth 
 and purity of expression. AVith a certain class 
 of readers Miss Toulmin was very popular, her 
 tales and sketches are pleasing if not profound, 
 and sbe possesses in an eminent degree the happy 
 faculty of adaptation : give her a hundred wood- 
 cuts at random, and she will in a trice write 
 you a tale in w^hich they shall all be demon- 
 strated to a nicety. As to her poetry a great 
 deal cannot bo said in favour of it, it is simply 
 poetry and that is all. 
 
 Her forte is decidedly prose writing, what- 
 ever her flattering friends may say to the con- 
 trary. Unfortunately Mrs. Crossland has got 
 hold of some of the cant notions and phrases of 
 the '' progress" people. It is all very well for 
 such scribblers as Eliza Cook, and such like, 
 to prate of this sort of thing, but the lady I 
 am speaking of need not descend to such 
 trickery. As an editress, Mrs. Crossland con- 
 
340 lions; living and dead. 
 
 ducts "La Belle Assemblee" with considerable 
 tact and vigour. 
 
 In society Mrs. Crossland is estimable and 
 excellent, and all who know her bear willing 
 testimony to her excellence as an authoress and 
 as a private individual. Before her marriage, 
 her Thursday evening parties at Harwood 
 Place, in the Hampstead road, were delightful, 
 for some of the most prominent literati of the 
 metropolis used to be found in those snug rooms. 
 And no wonder, for the re-unions were of that 
 free, social character, which is so charming to 
 all who hate the restraints and constraints of 
 set parties. Miss Toulmin's conversational 
 powers, which were great, though her modesty 
 prevented their full development, not a little 
 contributed to the pleasure afforded by these 
 meetings. 
 
 Another stroll about the rooms which now 
 were literally crammed, and the atmosphere at 
 fever heat. Lemonade and ices are greatly in 
 demand, and fans are flirting in all directions. 
 Here, there, and everywhere are groups, all in- 
 tent on the discussion of the last new poem, 
 play, picture or novel. Anecdotes of this and 
 that author are related, and the usual amount 
 of scandal goes the rounds, for be it known 
 that authors seldom meet together without 
 cutting up some of their own tribe. But see, 
 
A LITERARY SOIREE. 341 
 
 the people near the piano are all on the broad 
 grin let usthitherward, and join in the niirtb. 
 
 At the instrument are seated two perform- 
 ers a gentleman and a lady, who commence a 
 duet, the subject of which is the quarrel of a 
 married couple, who be-rate each other soundly. 
 The players and singers are in reality hus- 
 band and wife, and are only abusing each other 
 in fun. The gentleman is tall, bald-headed, 
 and intelligent looking ; one might take him 
 for a city merchant or a banker, or something 
 of that sort. The lady is very tall, and dresses 
 girlishly too girlishly rather, as she cannot 
 lay claim to any great share of beauty. In the 
 duet she acts her part amazingly well, and 
 the poor singing spouse gets the worst of it 
 the tossings of the head, and the peckings of 
 the chin are done to the life, and every one 
 cries '' Bravo !" the ladies with peculiar 
 emphasis, as though they highly approved of 
 the scolding lady's mode of shewing her inde- 
 pendence. Presently the duet concludes the 
 lady and gentleman rise, smile, resume their 
 own proper characters are profusely compli- 
 mented, and all are gratified. 
 
 The vocalists are Mr. and Mrs. Lovell. Mr. 
 Lovell is a dramatist of considerable skill, 
 though not perhaps of great power. Mr. 
 Charles Kean thought so highly of him as to 
 
S42 lions; living and dead, 
 
 euffage him to write for himself exclusively a 
 piece, and Lovell produced " The Wife's Se- 
 cret," which Mr. and Mrs. Kean's acting ren- 
 dered very successful. Recently, Mrs. Lovell 
 has come forward also, a dramatic authoress, or 
 rather translator of the play of " Ingomar," or 
 the Barbarian, which Mr. Anderson brought 
 out at Drury Lane, having been adapted to the 
 English Stage by her. 
 
 There are other literary ladies present, quite 
 a bevy of them, indeed. The class seems mar- 
 vellously to have increased during the past few 
 years, and really some of them are so successful 
 that the men had need "look to their laurels ;'* 
 some one says : 
 
 " Women are fortunate in a turn for those 
 occupations which can be performed while sit- 
 ting still, or which require movement in a 
 limited circle only. Their Olarissa-like genius 
 for weaving page after page of letter writing, 
 or in other words, for that interminable piece 
 of chequer work, dark and formidable, the 
 crossed letter ever extending it unsparingly 
 to the corner where the white surface of the 
 paper still shows itself down to the last crossed 
 line of the last page is quite an immediate 
 blessing of Heaven ; while their talents for 
 forming friendships wjth birds and goldfish 
 their craze for administering slop and flattery 
 
A LITERARY SOIREE. 343 
 
 to the young of animals, as if they wcro young 
 children their incredible patience under any 
 affliction of plants and flowers, which they 
 will sometimes meditate and regard as if tliey 
 were endeavouring to pass the bounds of Imman 
 knowledge, and to enter the niysteries of vege- 
 table life and their great instinct for making 
 themselves endlessly happy w^ith the vast sub- 
 ject of dress are endowments which must be 
 referred to the same category. These resources 
 are their salvation in many strange situations, 
 in which it would go hard, we suspect, with 
 male fiiculties." 
 
 The writer might add book writing on al- 
 most any subject under Heaven, is now among 
 feminine accomplishments. 
 
 Nearly during the whole ev^ening sat in one 
 spot, a secluded corner in one of the side-rooms, 
 a young lady whose appearance greatly interest- 
 ed me, even before I was aware who she was. 
 She was not exactly handsome, but her features 
 were so- striking that one could not avoid asso- 
 ciating with them the idea of considerable in- 
 tellectual power. The features were unmis- 
 takably Jewish, there was the high broad fore- 
 head, the large arched eyebrows, the full dark 
 eyes, the aquiline nose and the large mouth of 
 the Hebrew race. The figure was slight and 
 apparently debilitated,' a sort of sad smile lin- 
 
344 lions; living and dead. 
 
 gered on the countenance of the young lady 
 which betokened weakness rather than disease ; 
 but, alas ! even then the axe was laid to the foot 
 of the tree. Near this lady, also, sat another 
 young lady of quite a different cast of feature 
 and complexion, she was fair as a piece of deli- 
 cate wax modelling, and, as the event proved, 
 as fragile. Both of these ladies were 
 authoresses, the Jewess was Miss Grace 
 Aquilla, whose works need no eulogium from 
 my pen; the other lady, was Miss Acton, who 
 in connection with her sister, had published 
 a small volume of poems. 
 
 I have not mentioned anything like a tithe 
 of the noticeable authors, painters, and such 
 like, who were present on this occasion ; nor 
 have I time to dwell on the many interesting 
 incidents of the evening. It was one of those 
 mental holidays which linger in memory, and 
 such as are seldom enjoyed twice in a life-time. 
 At three in the morning, we quitted the bril- 
 liantly lighted chamber, and, through a thick 
 London fog, sought our home and its repose. 
 
oiO 
 
 CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 RECOLLECTIONS OP JOANNA BAILLIE AND JOHN GALT 
 WITH A NOTICE OF THE ORIGINAL OP " LAWRIE 
 TODD." 
 
 Some years ago, I spent the summer months 
 on, as Wordsworth calls it, " Ilampstead's 
 breezy heath," and whilst there, I received 
 from a literary friend a poem on " Winder- 
 mere," with a request that I would, when I 
 had perused it, hand it to Mrs. Joanna Baillie, 
 as there were in the poem some references to 
 the Bard of Eydal, and to herself, which he 
 thought would gratify her. 
 
 Accordingly, as I had not the pleasure of a 
 personal acquaintance with the poetess, 1 en- 
 closed the volume, with my friend's note, in a 
 parcel ; and was on my way to Holly-bush 
 Hill, the place of the poetess's residence, in- 
 tending to leave it as I passed, when I stepped 
 into a circulating library of the village, for 
 the sake of reading the morning papers. 
 
 I had not long been there when a customer 
 entered. It was an old gentlewoman, accom- 
 p 2 
 
346 lions; living and dead. 
 
 panied by a little serving-maid carrying a bas- 
 ket. Addressing the man behind the counter, 
 the lady enquired whether the " Poetesses 
 of England," which I afterwards learned she 
 had ordered, and was extremely anxious to 
 see, had arrived. The volume was enveloped 
 in paper, which she immediately, and I thought, 
 somewhat anxiously, removed. Sitting down, 
 she put on a pair of spectacles, and turned over 
 the leaves of the book until she came to an 
 apparently sought-for portion of it. As she 
 read, her countenance brightened as though 
 she was pleased with what met her eye ; but, 
 speaking of her countenance reminds me that I 
 have not described it ; and I do not know that 
 I can better do so, than by quoting a pen-and- 
 ink portrait of her, which I had sketched some 
 years before, when I had seen her in a London 
 theatre, on the occasion of the first performance 
 of Mr. Justice Talfourd's play of " Ion." 
 
 " In a centre box of the dress circle, sat an 
 elderly lady whose personal appearance formed 
 a very striking contrast to those wdio appeared 
 on either side of her. On her right and left 
 hand, were superbly attired ladies, resplendent 
 with beauty, who shone in all the glories of 
 jewellery and feathers. Youth and loveliness 
 were all round her ; and yet that plain, elderly 
 little lady attracted more notice than the bright- 
 
JOANNA BAILLIE. 347 
 
 est of them. The numerous literary people 
 j)resent turned from the belles in the boxes to 
 gaze on the withered little lady; who, if she ever 
 possessed beauty, had certainly lost it long ago. 
 
 The lady in question was not only elderly, as 
 we courteously call people, who are far down 
 the hill of life ; but absolutely old. Although 
 seated, it was evident she was of low stature, 
 and that her frame was attenuated. Her face 
 was small, and the features pinched : I know 
 of no other term which would conv^ey my mean- 
 ing so well as that. The skin of her face was 
 sallow, much wrinkled, and strained somewhat 
 tightly over a rather aquiline and sharply 
 pointed nose. Her gray hair was simply parted 
 on her fine forehead, and confined beneath a 
 plainly made cap. The eyes were small, dark 
 and very brilliant, and even at her advanced 
 age, she did not wear spectacles constantly 
 never, indeed, whilst looking at the stage. I 
 only saw them in use when she had occasion to 
 consult a bill of the play. She was dressed 
 in a very plain, dark silk gown, fitting closely 
 round the throat ; and had long black silk 
 gloves on, which reached half-way up her dress. 
 This was Joanna Baillie, the authoress of ' Da 
 Montford.'" 
 
 On the present occasion. Miss Baillie was in 
 a plain walking dress of sober black, and habited 
 
348 LIONS ; LIVING A.ND DEAD. 
 
 SO differently from what she was when years 
 before I saw her in the theatre, I did not re- 
 cognise her. When she had departed, the 
 librarian informed me that it was Miss Baillie, 
 or Mrs. Baillie, as she was called by the Hamp- 
 stead people. It appeared that the old lady 
 had been extremely anxious to procure the 
 work in order to see what was said of herself, 
 and doubtless the portion of the volume I had 
 seen her perusing with evident satisfaction was 
 the slight biographical and critical notice pre- 
 fixed to the selections from her works. 
 
 I left the poem, which I just now spoke of, 
 at Miss Baillie's house, and on my return to 
 my lodgings, in the evening, found a note from 
 her, with an invitation to tea next day ; of 
 course I was much gratified, and accepted it ; 
 but before I say anything about my visit, let 
 me mention a few facts connected with Joanna 
 Eaillie's history. 
 
 She was born in Scotland, in the upper dale 
 of the Clyde, a remarkably fruitful region, 
 and within a mile of Bothwell Brig. Her 
 father was the clergyman of that parish 
 Here she remained till she was four years of 
 age. After her father's death, she spent some 
 years with her family, in the moorlands of 
 Kilbride, and did not see Edinburgh till on 
 her way to England, when about twenty- 
 
JOANNA DAILLIE. 349 
 
 two years of a^o. Her brother was the cele- 
 brated Dr. Baillie, the friend of Sir ^Valto^ 
 Scott, with which great writer she also became 
 intimately acc^uainted, and was his guest, at his 
 house in Edinburi^h, in 180G. After that time, 
 they were most intimate friends ; she was one 
 of the persons to whom his letters were most 
 frequently addressed ; and he planted, in tes- 
 timony of his friendship for her, a bovver of 
 pinasters, the seeds of which she had fur- 
 nished, and called it " Joanna's Bower." Her 
 " Plays of the Passions" are well known. In 
 1810, her drama, of " The Family Legend,^' 
 was, through Scott's means, brought out at 
 Edinburgh, and was very well received. But 
 her tragedies are rather fitted for the closet 
 than the stage. For many years she resided 
 at Hampstead, in a quiet retreat, with her 
 sister, '' letting the world flow past her as if 
 she had nothing to do with it, nor cared to 
 be mentioned by it."' Here, however, she 
 received numerous visits from the most emi- 
 nent literati of her own and foreign lands. 
 Whenever Wordsworth visited London, he 
 always made Miss Baillie's house his home ; 
 so did Southey to a great extent. Crabbe 
 was an occasional visitor; indeed Holybush 
 Hill was a common resort of genius. 
 
 At the hour appointed six, for Miss Baillit 
 
350 LIOXS ; LIVING AND DEAD. 
 
 kept early hours I proceeded to keep my en- 
 gagement. On my arrival I was shown into a 
 large room, which looked into a flower garden. 
 Two ladies were seated at work ; Miss Baillie 
 herself being occupied in a rather unpoetical 
 operation of darning stockings. The other 
 lady was Miss Agnes Baillie, who appeared 
 much older, though I believe such was not the 
 case, than her sister. On the tea-table were 
 set the tea-things ; and, by the number of cups 
 and saucers, I saw I was not to be the only 
 guest. It was a delicious evening, and putting 
 aside her work, Miss Baillie, very considerately, 
 offered to show me her garden an offer which 
 I was glad enough to accept. As we strolled 
 through the walks, she conversed with great 
 sprightliness, often addressing particular flowers 
 as if they were pet children. Many of these, 
 I learned, were presents from the gardens of 
 friends and admirers, who were aware of her 
 great partiality for choice specimens of floral 
 beauty. Some of these were, I observed, label- 
 led with the names of the donors, among whom 
 was Sir Walter Scott, who, at her request, 
 had furnished her, years before, with a superb 
 Scotch thistle, of gigantic proportions, which 
 occupied a prominent position, and which she 
 tended with the greatest care. 
 
 On our return to the parlour, I found another 
 
JOHN GALT. 351 
 
 visitor. lie was a tall, broad shouldered man, 
 with a fine open face, aquiline nose, slif^htly 
 curlin<2^ hair, and a frank address. ^' Mr. 
 Gait I" said Mrs. Baillie, introducint; him ; 
 and then I knew I was in the presence of the 
 author of " Sir Andrew Wylie," " The Ayr- 
 shire Legatees" " Lawrie Todd," and a host 
 of other works. When he spoke, he had a 
 broad Scottish accent. He did not appear, in 
 robust health ; and he looked, I thought, 
 haggard and care-worn. 
 
 Gait was then, I found, visiting London, in 
 order to make arrangements for the publication 
 of all his works in five shilling volumes, 
 uniformly with those of Byron and others. 
 His circumstances were, 1 fear, none of the 
 best, for he had not, though so voluminous an 
 author, been fortunate in his literary and other 
 speculations. He was a remarkably pleasant 
 companion ; sharp, shrewd, and biting in his 
 criticisms on his contemporaries, and full of 
 anecdote. Miss Baillie remarked that of all his 
 fictions she preferred his " Sir Andrew Wylie." 
 Gait remarked that his own favourite was 
 " Lawrie Todd." 
 
 In the course of the evening. Miss Baillie 
 showed me a portfolio of original portraits of 
 the most eminent of her contemporaries, and 
 her choice library of presentation copies of va- 
 
oDZ LIONS ; LIVING AND DEAD. 
 
 rious works ; but a relic which she seemed to 
 value as much as anything was a gold headed 
 cane which belonged to her brother, Dr. Baillie, 
 which was a perfect " physician's companion" 
 of the olden time. For the memory of this 
 eminent man she had the most affectionate re- 
 gard, and tears moistened her eyes when she 
 spoke of his genius and his virtues. 
 
 Miss Baillie, although then not far from 
 eighty three or four years of age was astonish- 
 ingly active, and her memory appeared but 
 little impaired. She spoke in the most enthu- 
 siastic terms of Sir Walter Scott, both as a 
 man, and a writer, and expressed her opinion 
 that take him all together his equal has never 
 lived. Wordsworth, too, was a prime favour- 
 ite ; but she seemed to have little liking for 
 Shelley, though she spoke of him without 
 asperity. Of her own productions she said not 
 a word during the evening. 
 
 In the course of the evening, Mr. Gait said, 
 that the principal incidents in his story of 
 " Lawrie Todd" were drawn from real life, and 
 that the original, from whom he drew the 
 picture of his hero, was then actually living. 
 " And," he added, turning to me, " should 
 you ever go to America, ask for Grant Thor- 
 burn's seed store, in New York, and you will 
 find the man ; he is worth seeing." Little, 
 
JOHN OALT. 353 
 
 then, (lid I imagine that I should ever cross 
 the Atlantic. But a few years afterwards, I 
 visited the United States, and there fell in 
 with the eccentric little man, who furnished 
 the material acts for one of the shrewdest 
 works of fiction in our language. To this 
 worthy I will presently introduce the reader. 
 
 Poor Gait did not live very long after I was 
 favoured with this introduction to him. He 
 quitted London for his native country, where 
 he was seized, at his residence in the neigh- 
 bourhood of Greenock, with a stroke of para- 
 lysis, which deprived him almost entirely of 
 the use of one side. In this afflicting, half- 
 dead state he for some time lingered ; when 
 another attack completely prostrated him, and 
 he died in the prime of life. 
 
 Gait v/as chiefly known as a prose writer ; 
 sometimes, however, he dabbled in verse, and 
 I happen to have what I believe to be the latest 
 of his poetical compositions. It is not inserted 
 here from any motives of vanity, though it 
 would be idle to affirm that I was not highly 
 gratified by the compliment from such a quarter, 
 but simply as a literary reminiscence of a man 
 of genius as Gait undoubtedly was. I had, 
 it should be premised, sent him a presentation 
 copy of a work of mine just published. 
 
354 LiOiVs ; living and dead. 
 
 SONXET ON READING MR. 's BENEVOLENT 
 
 LIFE OF CHATTERTON. 
 
 Justice may linger, but it comes at last ; 
 
 So do your best, and trust to fate and time ; 
 What Man deserves, though buried iu the past, 
 
 Shall be awarded yet, in prose or rhyme. 
 In former years, with sorrow and with woe, 
 
 I mourn'd for Chatterton poor friendless boy ! 
 And oft in secret did my tear-drops flow. 
 
 As if foretasting then the world's aimoy : 
 But now, though late, a gentle heart appears, 
 
 That feels his sorrows and reveals his worth ; 
 And holy confidence allays my fears 
 
 For the starr'd stripling, who so spurn'd the earth ! 
 So then- whoe'er thou art that peu'st obscure. 
 
 Justice loill come have patience and endure ? 
 
 John Galt. 
 
 Miss Baillie died about two years since, at a 
 very advanced age her sister I believe pre- 
 ceded her in the long journey ; so that of the 
 four persons who met in the little parlour at 
 Hollybush Hill, on that pleasant summer even- 
 ing, only one survives. Nearly all of Miss 
 Baillie's old literary friends had gone before her ; 
 and since her death, Wordsworth has departed 
 also. Well might the latter have said in his 
 " Extempore Effusions," on reading the death 
 of the Ettrick Shepherd 
 
 *' Like clouds that robe the mountain summits. 
 
 Or waves that own no curbing hand, 
 How fast has brother followed brother. 
 
 From sunshine to the sunless land !" 
 
JOHN GALT. 355 
 
 Several years had elapsed since I met for the 
 first and only time John Gait, and then by 
 mere accident ; the interview with him was 
 vividly recalled to my memory. 
 
 I had crossed the Atlantic, and was one 
 broiling hot day languidly lonnging at the 
 window of a book store in Broadway, New 
 York, when a placard attracted my notice, it 
 was the announcement of a new work entitled, 
 " Flowers from the garden of Lawrie Todd/' 
 At first I supposed it to be a volume of extracts 
 from Galt''s novel of that name under a catch- 
 ing title, but on inquiring, 1 ascertained that 
 it was an autobiographical sketch of the very 
 individual of whom Mr. Gait had spoken to me 
 when in England, as the original of his novel. 
 
 I bought the volume, and perusing it felt 
 assured that its author was " a character,"" as 
 I learned too that he still kept a seed store 
 somewhere in Broadway, I determined to hunt 
 him up, and I was the more desirous of doing 
 this, as I had missed seeing him when he visited 
 London, where he had been made quite a "lion" 
 of, his portrait* had even been engraved among 
 the literary celebrities in Eraser's Magazine. 
 
 Just before I arrived at Neblo's garden, I 
 saw a large store with flowers blooming in pots, 
 and seeds of all descriptions in the window, 
 and looking over the door, I beheld the words, 
 
oo6 LIONS ; LIVING AND DEAD. 
 
 "Grant Thorburn, Seedsman and Florist," 
 in golden letters. As an excuse for calling, I 
 manufactured a want of some mignionette seed, 
 and stepped in. 
 
 Behind the counter was a little man, and on 
 it was a little child some three or four years of 
 age. Before them was a heap of flowers newly 
 gathered which the man was sorting into 
 bouquets, and with the rejected stalks the 
 child was making a wreath for her curly pate. 
 On my approach the man asked in an accent 
 so broadly Scotch, that Broadway might at the 
 moment have represented the high street of 
 Edinburgh, " What's your wull ?" I asked for 
 the mignionette seed and he put it in a packet. 
 
 I noticed when he went to the drawers for it 
 that he was exceedingly lame, and as I remem- 
 bered that Lawrie Todd was a " lameter" 
 I doubted not that I had now fallen on his 
 prototype, as indeed was the case. But let me 
 describe him. 
 
 As I said, he was short he w^as so low in 
 stature, that when he stood at the counter his 
 chin was very little above its top. On his 
 head which was very large he wore a big hat, 
 with a broadish brim and a great deal the 
 worse for wear. The face beneath was a 
 remarkable shrewd looking one, the eyes were 
 small, grey and very keen, they looked through 
 
JOHN GALT. 357 
 
 one. All over the face were wrinkles and 
 freckles, the nose was long and big, and the 
 mouth stern. Wheii he removed his hat he 
 exhibited a bald head except at the sides, 
 where short iron-grey hair covered the temples. 
 His dress was suited to his vocation. 
 
 After I had been served, I said : 
 
 " I believe," I have the pleasure of speaking 
 to Mr. Thorburn. 
 
 " Yes, that is my name, Grant Thorburn 
 what's your own f 
 
 I informed him, and added, that I heard 
 his name mentioned in England by Mr. Gait, 
 and so had felt desirous of seeing him. *' Ah ! 
 that's why ye bought the flower seed," he 
 remarked with a knowing look. " Well, well, 
 but it's mony the dollars worth that sort of 
 curiosity has got rid off for me." 
 
 " No wonder,"" I observed, " Every one who 
 has read ' Lawrie Todd' must be anxious to see 
 the man whose experience suggested the story." 
 
 " Eh ! mon," said Grant, " set doou a wee 
 on that stuil, and tell me whar's Gait noo V 
 
 I informed him of his death. 
 
 ' Ah !" he said, " It's no' right to speak ill 
 o' the dead, but he didna' behave just the thing 
 in the matter of that book ; I told him so 
 when I saw him in England. He was too 
 cunning for me there.'' 
 
.358 LIONS ; LIVING AND DEAD. 
 
 " How SO !"" I inquired. 
 
 " This way," he replied. " Mr. Gait, of 
 whom I had no previous knowledge, came here 
 to New York, and, Scotchman-like, found out 
 some of his countrymen, of whom I was one. 
 I then kept a seed store near his boarding- 
 house, and he used to sit with me by the hour 
 together. I had kept a journal ever since I went 
 to America, intending at some future day to 
 make a book of it, and I told Mr. Gait of it. 
 He begged me to let him see it, and I did. 
 Well, he was so much pleased with what little 
 I read him, that he said my life was quite as 
 good as a romance, and begged me to lend him 
 the diary, that he might amuse himself at his 
 hotel by reading it at his leisure. 1 refused for 
 some time, but he pressed me so that I com- 
 plied at last, and then I had a matter to get it 
 away from him. After he went to England I 
 found that he had copied it worked up my 
 material, and brought it out as the " Adventures 
 of Lawrie Todd, or the Settlers in the Woods.'' 
 
 "And were the incidents intbat work founded 
 on facts within your own experience V 
 
 " Yes and the characters too all my early 
 struggles to get on are faithfully described as if 
 I had written them myself indeed, in many 
 instances, my own words are used." 
 
 Now, although Grant Thorburn affected to 
 
JOHN OALT. 359 
 
 feci annoyed witli Gait's having forestalled him 
 in the book, yet I fancy I detected a twinkle 
 of secret satisfaction in his eye as he spoko of 
 " Lawrie Todd," which book has certainly con- 
 ferred more celebrity on him than his own com- 
 position ever could have done. 
 
 He was full of anecdote, aud loved a listener. 
 The ancient history of New York was quite 
 familiar to him, and he had known most of the 
 notable men who, during his lifetime, had 
 flourished within its borders. Something, I 
 know not what, brought up the mention of 
 Thomas Paine. 
 
 '' Ah ! I saw a good deal of him, when he 
 was in this city," said Thorburn. " He \vas a 
 j)oor, miserable creature, except when he was 
 drunk. I had a long dispute with him once 
 about the authenticity of the Bible, when, to 
 show his contempt for it, he borrowed one from 
 the landlord, and threw it on the fire. I res- 
 cued it from the flames, and have it now. But 
 I never spoke to him afterwards." 
 
 *' He was a tall, burly man," he continued, 
 " with blood-shot eyes, a fierce, domineering 
 look, a husky dictatorial voice, and a nose swol- 
 len and red at the tip, from the constant use of 
 brandy, of which he took large quantities. In- 
 deed, he died a sot and a drunkard."" 
 
 The old gentleman then detained me while 
 
360 LIONS ; LIVING AND DEAD. 
 
 he gave me a very amusing and graphic descrip- 
 tion of his visit to Scotland, after forty years 
 absence. His old father was yet alive, but 
 blind. " When I got near the house/' said 
 Mr. Thorburn, *' I sent a friend into the house 
 to say some one had brought news for him from 
 his son Grant, for he did not know I was in 
 Scotland, and I went in. As soon as I spoke, 
 he cried out,. ' That's Grant's voice ;' and I 
 burst out crying, and fell into his arms. He 
 wept too ; and I never felt so happy in my life 
 as when, after so many years, I thus met my 
 poor old blind father.'' 
 
 Grant Thorburn is still living, and his seed- 
 store still stands, but not in Broadway. The 
 old man has retired from it, and his descendants 
 carry on the business. He has lately published 
 his memoirs, but I have not seen them, and 
 doubtless they are of interest. Occasionally he 
 scribbles for the newspapers ; for he is fond of 
 letting the world know that he is yet " green 
 and flourishing." 
 
 W. F. Pratt, Printer, Stokesley, Yorkshire.