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You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: London Days + A Book of Reminiscences + +Author: Arthur Warren + +Release Date: January 1, 2011 [EBook #34812] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK LONDON DAYS *** + + + + +Produced by Al Haines + + + + + +</pre> + + +<BR><BR> + +<A NAME="img-front"></A> +<CENTER> +<IMG CLASS="imgcenter" SRC="images/img-front.jpg" ALT="Arthur Warren" BORDER="2"> +<H4 CLASS="h4center" STYLE="width: 507px"> +Arthur Warren +</H4> +</CENTER> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<H1 ALIGN="center"> +LONDON DAYS +</H1> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +A BOOK OF REMINISCENCES +</H3> + +<BR> + +<H4 ALIGN="center"> +BY +</H4> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +ARTHUR WARREN +</H3> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<H4 ALIGN="center"> +BOSTON +<BR> +LITTLE, BROWN, AND COMPANY +<BR> +1920 +</H4> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<H5 ALIGN="center"> +<I>Copyright, 1920</I>, +<BR> +BY ARTHUR WARREN. +<BR><BR> +<I>All rights reserved</I> +<BR> +Published September, 1920 +<BR><BR><BR> +Norwood Press +<BR> +Set up and electrotyped by J. S. Cushing Co. +<BR> +Norwood, Mass., U. S. A. +</H5> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<H2 ALIGN="center"> +CONTENTS +</H2> + +<TABLE ALIGN="center" WIDTH="80%"> + +<TR> +<TD ALIGN="right" VALIGN="top">CHAPTER</TD> +<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top"> </TD> +<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top">PAGE</TD> +</TR> + +<TR> +<TD ALIGN="right" VALIGN="top">I </TD> +<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top"> +<A HREF="#chap01">First Glimpses of London </A></TD> +<TD ALIGN="right" VALIGN="top"> 1</TD> +</TR> + +<TR> +<TD ALIGN="right" VALIGN="top">II </TD> +<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top"> +<A HREF="#chap02">London in the Late Seventies </A></TD> +<TD ALIGN="right" VALIGN="top"> 9</TD> +</TR> + +<TR> +<TD ALIGN="right" VALIGN="top">III </TD> +<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top"> +<A HREF="#chap03">A Norman Interlude </A></TD> +<TD ALIGN="right" VALIGN="top"> 18</TD> +</TR> + +<TR> +<TD ALIGN="right" VALIGN="top">IV </TD> +<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top"> +<A HREF="#chap04">I Take the Plunge </A></TD> +<TD ALIGN="right" VALIGN="top"> 28</TD> +</TR> + +<TR> +<TD ALIGN="right" VALIGN="top">V </TD> +<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top"> +<A HREF="#chap05">Browning and Moscheles </A></TD> +<TD ALIGN="right" VALIGN="top"> 42</TD> +</TR> + +<TR> +<TD ALIGN="right" VALIGN="top">VI </TD> +<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top"> +<A HREF="#chap06">Patti </A></TD> +<TD ALIGN="right" VALIGN="top"> 57</TD> +</TR> + +<TR> +<TD ALIGN="right" VALIGN="top">VII </TD> +<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top"> +<A HREF="#chap07">John Stuart Blackie </A></TD> +<TD ALIGN="right" VALIGN="top"> 79</TD> +</TR> + +<TR> +<TD ALIGN="right" VALIGN="top">VIII </TD> +<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top"> +<A HREF="#chap08">Lord Kelvin </A></TD> +<TD ALIGN="right" VALIGN="top"> 96</TD> +</TR> + +<TR> +<TD ALIGN="right" VALIGN="top">IX </TD> +<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top"> +<A HREF="#chap09">Tennyson </A></TD> +<TD ALIGN="right" VALIGN="top"> 114</TD> +</TR> + +<TR> +<TD ALIGN="right" VALIGN="top">X </TD> +<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top"> +<A HREF="#chap10">Gladstone </A></TD> +<TD ALIGN="right" VALIGN="top"> 138</TD> +</TR> + +<TR> +<TD ALIGN="right" VALIGN="top">XI </TD> +<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top"> +<A HREF="#chap11">Whistler </A></TD> +<TD ALIGN="right" VALIGN="top"> 157</TD> +</TR> + +<TR> +<TD ALIGN="right" VALIGN="top">XII </TD> +<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top"> +<A HREF="#chap12">Henry Drummond </A></TD> +<TD ALIGN="right" VALIGN="top"> 170</TD> +</TR> + +<TR> +<TD ALIGN="right" VALIGN="top">XIII </TD> +<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top"> +<A HREF="#chap13">Sir Henry Irving </A></TD> +<TD ALIGN="right" VALIGN="top"> 185</TD> +</TR> + +<TR> +<TD ALIGN="right" VALIGN="top">XIV </TD> +<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top"> +<A HREF="#chap14">Henry M. Stanley </A></TD> +<TD ALIGN="right" VALIGN="top"> 205</TD> +</TR> + +<TR> +<TD ALIGN="right" VALIGN="top">XV </TD> +<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top"> +<A HREF="#chap15">George Meredith </A></TD> +<TD ALIGN="right" VALIGN="top"> 222</TD> +</TR> + +<TR> +<TD ALIGN="right" VALIGN="top">XVI </TD> +<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top"> +<A HREF="#chap16">Parnell </A></TD> +<TD ALIGN="right" VALIGN="top"> 240</TD> +</TR> + +<TR> +<TD ALIGN="right" VALIGN="top">XVII </TD> +<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top"> +<A HREF="#chap17">"Le Brav' Général" </A></TD> +<TD ALIGN="right" VALIGN="top"> 260</TD> +</TR> + +<TR> +<TD ALIGN="right" VALIGN="top"> </TD> +<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top"> +<A HREF="#index">Index </A></TD> +<TD ALIGN="right" VALIGN="top"> 275</TD> +</TR> + +</TABLE> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="chap01"></A> + +<SPAN CLASS="pagenum">{<A NAME="P1"></A>1}</SPAN> + +<H2 ALIGN="center"> +LONDON DAYS +</H2> + +<BR><BR> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +CHAPTER I +</H3> + +<H4 ALIGN="center"> +FIRST GLIMPSES OF LONDON +</H4> + +<P> +One day at dusk, in the autumn of 1878, when I was eighteen, I arrived +at the heart of the world. +</P> + +<P> +I was fresh from New England, and had left Boston, my native city, +seventeen days before, embarking at New York on the Anchor liner +<I>Alsatia</I> three days later; disembarking at Tilbury after a turbulent +voyage that lasted two weeks to the hour. What was left of me passed +from the Fenchurch Street Station into Leadenhall Street, the least of +three passengers in a four-wheeled cab. Through the cab windows, and +the ghost of fog which simmered over gas lamps, flashed glimpses of the +city, splashes of light on the pavements illuminated windows bound in +brass, cumbrous drays and 'busses, and great grey horses, and +glistening pubs. The air was heavy with smoke. I heard the tramp of +thousands and thousands of persons, all homeward bound, and all wearing +top hats. And, of all names, there at the right on a clothier's sign, +the enamelled legend: "Dombey and Son!" My head was packed with +Dickens, and in a pocket was a linen-backed map. +</P> + +<SPAN CLASS="pagenum">{<A NAME="P2"></A>2}</SPAN> + +<P> +In one way and another, by books and maps and imagination, I was +already on familiar terms with the world-city which I had never seen. +I had read it up, studied it, knew intricate maps of it, and stories of +its traditions. At a time when the youth of my country and generation +were expected to follow Horace Greeley's advice, "Go West and grow up +with the country" or, as interpreted by the cynics, "Go West and start +a graveyard"—I made a chance to go East across the Atlantic. And I +went. So I beheld the Old World. But I had chances enough, that is, I +made them, to see the New World later. And I saw it. History in the +making is interesting,—sometimes, and if you survive. History already +made and rounded and woven into legend, the scenes among which men have +lived and wrought through centuries, shaping the rich past on which we +build the present, hold a fascination which did not seem to come to me +from regions where man was pioneering. London was the magnet that +first drew me. And as the cab turned south from Leadenhall Street and +moved slowly along the noisy streams of traffic, I exclaimed presently, +to the disappointment of my companions who knew the town and were +prepared to point out its places of celebrity: +</P> + +<P> +"London Bridge at last!" +</P> + +<P> +"At last?" said they. "Why, this is quick work for the time of day. +How many minutes?" +</P> + +<P> +"But I've been eighteen years on the way," said I. +</P> + +<P> +I managed to keep awake and hungry till we got to the Wiltshire Road in +Brixton, where my guides +<SPAN CLASS="pagenum">{<A NAME="P3"></A>3}</SPAN> +from Fenchurch Street were staying. The +stagger and strain of the sea voyage had left me stupidly weary, so +that as soon as possible after dinner I went to bed. Although I stayed +three weeks in that house, all recollection of a dining room has +vanished. That may be attributed to the zeal of youth and its +indifference to the art of dining, an art acquired speedily enough +later on. But never in the subsequent years have I been able to revive +a single memory of that Brixton house. And the only recollection of +the first three weeks in England is that on the first morning, at an +office in the City, I was violently seasick. +</P> + +<P> +Atlantic passengers who begin their voyaging nowadays in luxuriously +fitted vessels of fifty thousand tons, and coddled within an inch of +their lives, lack the remotest notion of the sea travel of forty years +ago. The <I>Alsatia</I>, of the Anchor Line, was one of the largest and +finest ships afloat in 1878. She had a single smokestack and a single +screw, no covered deck for passengers, no barber shop, no electric +lights, not even an electric bell. Deck chairs were unknown, but later +you could buy them ashore and store them in the Company's baggage room +against your return. No meal could be served on deck without the +permission of the captain. The first mate was a surly ass who +threatened passengers with irons if he caught them infringing some +stupid rule, long since abolished; and although the steamer was fairly +new she belonged to the age when seamen hated fresh air in a hull, and +the smells from her bilges would have asphyxiated an ox. She was one +<SPAN CLASS="pagenum">{<A NAME="P4"></A>4}</SPAN> +tenth the size of the big liners of to-day, five thousand tons +being registered to her credit in the advertisements where she was +described as "a giant." She was a worthy sea craft, but she hopped, +skipped, and jumped all the way from New York to London, used fourteen +days in getting there, ten being made against head gales and heavy +seas, one of which threw a sailor from the maintop to the deck, killing +him, and sweeping overboard two hundred sheep which we carried on the +foredeck. Nearly all liners in those days carried sail and were +square-rigged. Their canvas was stained with soot and smoke, but it +had a steadying effect on the ship when spread to a favouring quarter. +Whether the <I>Alsatia</I> carried sail I never knew for I was ten days +helpless and agonised in my cabin, and for three days more the +mastheads seemed to scrape the scudding clouds with a fore-and-aft +motion that tore your eyes if you looked skyward. It was only after we +had passed well up Channel, near Dover, that the wind eased and we +could venture on deck without clinging to life lines. +</P> + +<P> +This horror of seasickness was as unexpected as it was distressing, +for, if I had not been brought up on the sea, I had been accustomed to +it long enough, and had sailed an eighteen-foot catboat up and down +Massachusetts Bay, where there is rough water much of the time and +scope for seamanlike work all the time. Whether on long rollers, or on +choppy water, I had never been troubled by the sea's motion until the +<I>Alsatia</I> tumbled across the Atlantic, and then it was my head that +bore distress, and not my +<SPAN CLASS="pagenum">{<A NAME="P5"></A>5}</SPAN> +centreboard. It seemed as if the +fragment of brain still remaining in me broke loose and rattled from +skull to toes, bounding back with a hideous roar and horrid pressure +which found no relief till we got into quiet water. I vowed never to +go to sea again. Since then I have made more than fifty voyages on the +North Atlantic alone. +</P> + +<P> +There was a man aboard who had a salty sailor's fondness for a howling +sea, and we became amazing friendly. And he was amazing fat, so that +he took very short steps. As I was no thicker than a lath, and +six-feet-an-inch-and-a-half tall, there was contrast enough as he +paddled alongside me. Creeping from the hated stateroom where ten +nearly foodless and acutely torturing days had been passed in a damp +melancholy, I saw a dozen or fifteen passengers—our full +strength—seated at a long table on the starboard side of the saloon, +listening to Mr. Pickwick reading "Othello." He was as round as +Pickwick, not quite so cherubic as Phiz's immortal drawing, and minus +the spectacles. In the tossing night, when we had forgotten that any +portion of the universe was ever still, he was declaiming Othello's +speech to the Senate. +</P> + +<P> +The figure and the fact were incongruous, but the effect of the +declamation was not. He read all the tragedy, barring a few cuts. I +supposed him a comic actor with an ambition for tragic parts. Some +sailors staring through a deck light took him for a "sky pilot" reading +the burial service for their fellow, but thought him over-long about +it. His name was Henry Murray. He was a Scotsman +<SPAN CLASS="pagenum">{<A NAME="P6"></A>6}</SPAN> +retired from the +Chinese trade. He was also a Free Mason, Past District Grand Master +for China. He was returning to England with the intention of becoming +a public reader. He intended even to become an actor of Falstaff and +he had long been a capable amateur. His father had been a famous actor +in Edinburgh; his brother commanded the Guion liner <I>Arizona</I>, and +later, the <I>Alaska</I>. +</P> + +<P> +Henry Murray was a good judge of acting. But his fondness for acting +was fatal to his fortunes and his life. The first he spent in efforts +to establish himself; the second he wore out in disappointment over the +failure of his plans. I remember him with genuine affection, because +he was the first to open to me any door in the mighty and mysterious +world of London. +</P> + +<P> +Plans had no place in my baggage, at least no plans requiring space. I +had practically worked my way to London where I was to join the staff +of an American engineering concern who were introducing an invention. +Though lacking years I had sufficient application, and I had learned +enough of the business to justify my appointment. That, in fact, had +been my purpose, and I worked hard to achieve it and uphold it. But I +wanted to write. And, being in London, why not write about London? I +knew that Mrs. Glasse's recipe for cooking hare had begun, "First catch +your hare", and so the prescription for my own case ran, "First learn +your London." Meantime I had my vocation to lean on. During the +business hours of four years I ran with my vocation, and, out of +business hours, followed my hobby. +</P> + +<SPAN CLASS="pagenum">{<A NAME="P7"></A>7}</SPAN> + +<P> +Old Mother London gave me the key to her streets, and diligently I used +it. Into every old church I wandered, and into every old building that +had given shelter to Fame when she touched a poet, a philosopher, a +painter, a literary man, a tragedian, a soldier, sailor, or a king. +And I knew the burial places of those she cherished, and those she +flouted, or those she flirted with, no less than the living places of +those who still pursued her on any of the grey mornings in which I +rambled. They became as familiar to me as any 'bus line, and I became +a walking directory to the odd corners where she had preened her +feathers for an hour or for a space of years. I became saturated with +her legends, and occasionally an arbiter in cases of suspected masonry +whose identity rumour and record had disputed or concealed. That was +one form of amusement. The play was another. +</P> + +<P> +I was at home in London from the moment of my arrival at Fenchurch +Street. It had been a far cry to Fenchurch Street, and when a lad made +it in company with a rotund gentleman of Pickwickian build, the chances +were sure to be amusing. After trying two or three boarding houses, I +settled in chambers just out of Queen Square in Bloomsbury. Murray was +in apartments half a mile away, in Marchmont Street. Marchmont Street +was shabby in those days, whatever it may be now. On the west side of +it, over a tailor's shop kept by her husband, was the shabby, but clean +and shining house of Mrs. Floyth, a melancholy woman who had been maid +or housekeeper to John Stuart Mill when +<SPAN CLASS="pagenum">{<A NAME="P8"></A>8}</SPAN> +the manuscript of Carlyle's +"French Revolution" was burned to light the fires! I have always +wondered if the old lady herself were responsible for that +conflagration. It might have accounted for her settled melancholy. +</P> + +<P> +My chambers near Queen Square were in a spacious old house which was +panelled and carved from roof to entrance hall. There soon began to +meet here, once or twice a month, a congenial group, smoking +churchwarden pipes. It called itself the "Quill Club", talked +politics, the drama, and books, and the members disagreed as heartily +as any human beings could on all the topics of life. +</P> + +<P> +There would have been no interest in listening to another fellow's talk +had you been in agreement with him. There were but two rules in the +Club: the first that a man should say what he thought; the second—give +his reasons for thinking so. When a man failed to sustain his opinion +by his reasons he paid for the tobacco. The Quills, as may be +supposed, were chiefly of a trade, quill drivers. But they were not +entirely so: one was "by way of being" an artist, another was a +solicitor, a third was inclined to surgery, a fourth made musical +boxes, the fifth was a dentist, and the others pursued literature, at +greater or smaller distances, and incidentally contributed small feed +to the presses in Fleet Street, or elsewhere. Of a dozen, ten are +dead. Some made goals, some fell by the way. But they all enjoyed +life and work, for all were young. And sometimes they could pay their +bills. +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="chap02"></A> + +<SPAN CLASS="pagenum">{<A NAME="P9"></A>9}</SPAN> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +CHAPTER II +</H3> + +<H4 ALIGN="center"> +LONDON IN THE LATE SEVENTIES +</H4> + +<P> +London was a more livable place in the late seventies than it is now, +or so it seems to me, as it seems to many others who knew the town in +that earlier time. There were not so many means for getting everywhere +as there are now, and yet we got everywhere,—everywhere, that is, that +we wished to go. We were not in a hurry then, and there was more +consideration for the old and the lame than there is now. Now there is +none at all in the streets or under them. The electric age was +prophesied, but nothing more. Nobody in England believed in +prophecies. There were arc lights on Holborn Viaduct and the Thames +Embankment, nowhere else, but the incandescent lamp had not appeared. +There was nothing electrical, in our modern sense, except the +telegraph. The telephone was unknown. It is almost unknown to-day, if +London's use of it be compared with New York's. There was no electric +traction, and the petrol age was nearly a quarter of a century distant. +But for all these drawbacks, as I daresay they may be regarded by the +youth of the present hour, London was the most livable place in the +world, if you loved cities; it had a charm, a fascination all its own. +</P> + +<SPAN CLASS="pagenum">{<A NAME="P10"></A>10}</SPAN> + +<P> +That charm is not to be described. How can it be described, any more +than the charm of a charming woman? You are conscious of it, you know +that there is nothing like it, you are sorry for those who must live +elsewhere and cannot come under its spell; they have missed that much +out of life. You experience a certain largeness of heart, and would +like to give everybody a June in London, but reluctantly acknowledge +that every one must take the will for the deed. +</P> + +<P> +But if you attempt to analyse London it will baffle your effort. It is +at once so splendid and so mean, so spacious and so meagre, so +beautiful and so ugly, so noisy and so quiet, so restless and restful, +that the farther you go the more puzzled you become, unless having +begun by questioning it you end by accepting. Take it in its own way +and you will see that it is in itself a problem that cannot be solved +by a study of weeks or months; it is a study for a lifetime, for many +lifetimes. For instance: architecturally it is too often saddening and +mean. +</P> + +<P> +Some one will fly into a rage when he reads the preceding sentence. He +will ask resentfully if I think Westminster Abbey, the Parliament +Buildings, St. Paul's Cathedral sad, or mean, or shabby. Of course I +do not. Their nobility and beauty almost redeem the hundreds of square +miles of common-place and melancholy builders' work that encumbers +London. Yet how the mean shops press upon St. Paul's and shut it in! +Could anything be uglier than the National Gallery? Could any +important thoroughfare be more conducive to depression of +<SPAN CLASS="pagenum">{<A NAME="P11"></A>11}</SPAN> +spirits +than Victoria Street? It's not the old London that is architecturally +ugly and mean; it is the modern London, and usually the more modern the +greater the affliction to the eye. Somebody said, I think it was +Schelling, "Architecture is frozen music." Would not anybody say that +the Methodist mountain in Westminster is frozen pudding? +</P> + +<P> +London in the late seventies was architecturally less saddening than +now, because less that was pretentious and defiant of good taste had +been undertaken. Its public buildings of later date are the worst in +Europe, excepting those that have arisen in Germany. Squat, heavy, out +of proportion, lacking in dignity, in beauty, they seem to have been +erected for the purpose of proving that in architecture the modern +Briton will neither imitate nor aspire. "The finest site in Europe" is +almost the meanest sight. The marvel is that a capital and a country +having so many fine models of earlier date do not repeat them, improve +upon them, or attempt even a finer taste. The opportunities have been +unrivalled, but about the achievements the less said the better. Acres +of slums have been swept away to be superseded by miles of masonry +which serve mainly to prevent an acquaintance with good taste. What +public "improvement" could be shabbier than Shaftsbury Avenue, meaner +than newer Whitehall, or more commonplace than Kingsway and Aldwych? +What department of a Government could have blocked a vista so +remorselessly as the Admiralty has done, or have betrayed a contempt +for beauty more disheartening than the County +<SPAN CLASS="pagenum">{<A NAME="P12"></A>12}</SPAN> +Council has shown in +its latest horror at Westminster Bridge? +</P> + +<P> +The majestic beauties of London seem to have developed by accident +rather than by design. The view down Waterloo Place to the Abbey and +the Victoria Tower and the view eastward from the Serpentine Bridge in +Hyde Park have certainly done so. The view down the river from +Waterloo Bridge, or Westminster, was never planned; it grew slowly, +being first blessed by every natural advantage that a patient +Providence could bestow. In its buildings of a private character, its +domestic architecture, London still has much to seek; monotony has been +the rule, but the style has not deteriorated. In some respects and +localities it has much improved; there is evidence that imagination has +been allowed to exercise itself, that all house owners do not, in these +times, think alike, and are not content with dwellings which, outwardly +at least, seem, class by class, to have been run from one mould. +Individuality begins to express itself as if, at last, some Londoners +were beginning to lose their fear of becoming conspicuous. An advance +in taste has run concurrently with the decline of the top hat and frock +coat. +</P> + +<P> +But the interiors of English buildings of all kinds, public as well as +private, churches as well as theatres, offices no less than railway +stations, clubs, homes, hotels, all are draughty, as lacking in warmth +as they were when I first knew them. The exceptions are so few that +they are advertised. Central heating is still regarded as a fad, +constant hot water is a +<SPAN CLASS="pagenum">{<A NAME="P13"></A>13}</SPAN> +novelty; there is a superstitious regard +for cold air as pure air, and a fear of warm air as impure. But the +worst cold is that of dampness, and many houses are never dry. Mildew +is common in their closets, chill in the bedrooms, and their halls are +rheumatic. Rheumatism, and its allies lumbago, influenza, pneumonia, +and consumption are the customary ills. When the Briton is cold +indoors he goes out for a walk and warms his blood. The theory is that +artificial warmth is unhealthful; the truth is that it is an expense to +which the Briton objects, and that he has not learned how to warm his +house. The tough survive. The delicate, the aged, the invalid, or the +sedentary take their chances, and while they live do so with an +unbelievable lack of comfort. Consequently the English complain of +cold when the American would think the temperature moderate; but the +American uses heat to keep his house dry as well as warm. He often +overdoes it; he often goes as far in one direction as the Briton in the +other. But an English house warmed in the American way, not +necessarily to the usual American degree, is always appreciated by the +Briton, although he may be far from understanding the reason of his +content. London had a charm in the late seventies that it lost when +the Twentieth Century was still young,—the charm of leisure. The +internal-combustion engine drove leisure from the land. The old +two-horse 'bus was a leisurely thing. Even the four-horse express +'busses that plied between the Swan at Clapham to Gracechurch Street, +and similar urban and suburban centres, were leisurely enough, +<SPAN CLASS="pagenum">{<A NAME="P14"></A>14}</SPAN> +compared with the electric trains and motor 'busses that now rush the +city man to and fro. They were not comfortable, those horse-drawn +caravans with their knifeboard roofs and perilous scaling ladders, that +is, they were not comfortable excepting on the box seats to which every +man's ambition soared. There, sheltered by great leathery aprons, the +lucky passenger braved the weather, beheld the passing world, and +exchanged small talk with the driver who condescended affably to +discourse, with his "regulars", the news of the day. The smart hansom +disappeared long ago. Smart as it was it was leisurely compared with +the flashing taxi and motor which have superseded "London's gondola", +as Disraeli called it. And, Heaven knows, the sulphurous underground +was leisurely beyond words. +</P> + +<P> +Everybody rushes now. London has no more time to spare than New York +has. It seems a dream that, when I first entered an English train, the +custom was for the railway guards to call, "Take your time, take your +time!" But that was their call forty years ago. +</P> + +<P> +Gradually the street cries have lessened in variety, in character, and +in interest. The simple trades that announced their wares by a snatch +of something that passed for song have disappeared one by one. Even +the muffin man is vocal no longer, and his bell is silent. Whatever +may have caused the other merchants of the curb to vanish, the war and +short rations removed the muffin man. He was almost the last, perhaps +actually the last of the creatures who gave to London streets an +old-world sound or savour. +</P> + +<SPAN CLASS="pagenum">{<A NAME="P15"></A>15}</SPAN> + +<P> +When the late seventies were still on the calendar, and for long after, +the silk hat was an unrelenting tyrant, and in the City, among +stockbrokers, it bore a special gloss. Every male above the age and +status of an office boy or a labouring man wore a silk hat. Without +that ugly and inconvenient headgear you would not call upon your +solicitor, or appear at your banker's, or negotiate a contract, much +less intrude upon an official person. The silk hat was a sign of +respectability. In the House of Commons it seemed a symbol of the +majesty of the British Constitution. There, to this day, the head must +be covered, as if the members were in a synagogue. In summer time +straw hats were unknown, excepting for the sex that was gentler then, +and invariably the sex wore furs with its straws. A man who ventured +in a straw hat incurred the risk of obloquy. At any rate, he was as +marked and ridiculous an object as Jonas Hanway when, in an earlier +century, he raised an umbrella in Oxford Street. +</P> + +<P> +Temple Bar was standing where Fleet Street joins the Strand; the new +Law Courts which now overlook its site were in process of construction; +the Griffin was undreamed of. Northumberland Avenue had been opened +but was incomplete. The modern hotels had yet to be promoted. The +Grand was the first of these, but its fortunes were thought hazardous. +There was no Metropole, or Victoria, although their walls were going +up. Rimmel's perfumery warehouse stood where the Savoy is now, and +that sordid adventurer Hobbs (or was it Jabez Balfour?) had not +preëmpted the site of the Cecil which was +<SPAN CLASS="pagenum">{<A NAME="P16"></A>16}</SPAN> +then covered with +lodging houses, chambers, and private hotels. There was no Carlton, no +Ritz, no Waldorf; even the Great Central was not in being, and the only +restaurants of consequence were the Criterion, St. James', Gatti's old +Adelaide Gallery, half its present size, the Café Royal, Very's, and +the stuffy predecessor of the present Holborn. +</P> + +<P> +The first run of "Pinafore" had not ended, the revival of Old Drury's +prosperous days had not begun; "Our Boys" had been running for nearly +five thousand nights at the Vaudeville; Sothern was making his last +appearances in the last season of the unremodelled Haymarket; there was +the Alhambra but no Empire, no Hippodrome, no Coliseum; St. James' +Hall, but no Queen's Hall; the Albert Hall was mostly empty, the +old-style music halls were mostly full; Mr. Pinero was acting small +parts in Irving's company and had not written so much as the scenario +of a one-act play; Henry Arthur Jones had not been heard of; Bernard +Shaw was unknown, Adelaide Neilson was at the height of her brief +career, Forbes Robertson had begun his, and Buckstone's days were +ending. The era of the Kendals and John Hare at the St. James' was yet +to come, but the happy reign of the Bancrofts, at the old Prince of +Wales', behind the Tottenham Court Road, where the Scala now stands, +had yet to close. +</P> + +<P> +George Meredith was not only "caviare to the general" but "the general" +were a little shocked when they learned that he was still a reader for +a publishing house and a writer when he had the time. "The general" +found delight in the fiction of Miss +<SPAN CLASS="pagenum">{<A NAME="P17"></A>17}</SPAN> +Braddon and Mrs. Henry Wood, +and, of course, Ouida, as they would delight now if these ladies were +spinning copy; Kipling was at school, and Barrie dreaming in the north. +We had William Black and Walter Besant and James Rice, but no Society +of Authors, and no literary knights. If the world is small now it was +very large then, but "sausage and mashed" were cheap at the top of +London Bridge, threepence for a pair of hulking sausages and a liberal +plate of mashed potato, a penny more for a great hunk of bread, and +tu'ppence more for half a tankard of beer. +</P> + +<P> +A certain splendid swagger departed from London Streets when the +regiments quartered in town abandoned their gorgeous uniforms and +dressed less like magnificos and more like fighting men. They were +fighting men though, they and their successors who held back the +outnumbering German rush from the Channel ports of France in 1914, as +all the world knows, and none know better than the Huns. But they were +dandies too, those earlier men, and they filled the eye. Their saucy +scarlet, short-waisted jackets, their jaunty fatigue caps, their tight +trousers with broad red stripes, on shapely legs which seemed +tremendous in length, were at once the admiration of nursemaids and the +envy of small boys, lending, as they did, colour and form to these dun +streets. Will the glorious colossi who strode thus habited be seen +again this side of Charon's ferry; or will their successors lead the +simple life in khaki and puttees? +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="chap03"></A> + +<SPAN CLASS="pagenum">{<A NAME="P18"></A>18}</SPAN> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +CHAPTER III +</H3> + +<H4 ALIGN="center"> +A NORMAN INTERLUDE +</H4> + +<P> +After a winter in London I went to Paris for a part of the spring, +stopping on the way a day in Rochester (I had the Dickens fever then), +and another day in Canterbury for the Cathedral's sake. A night boat, +the ancient Wave, or the antediluvian Foam, took me to Calais, and +through some delay on the line there was a wait of hours. But the +night was fine, and I spent it roaming through and beyond the old town, +getting forty winks afterward in the station, and a breakfast of hot +chocolate and bread at a place facing the harbour where I watched the +fishing boats put out on a convenient tide. In Paris I knew only one +person, an American friend who was studying art, taking his lessons at +Julian's, and slowly, yet certainly, learning that art was not for him. +He introduced me to a lot of men who knew their way about, and soon I +knew my way about as well as they did, possibly, in some directions, a +little better, for, with one or two exceptions, I cannot remember any +who were gifted with a faculty for anything but good-fellowship and for +spending their allowances from home. They knew the jargon of the +studios, but as Paris seemed full +<SPAN CLASS="pagenum">{<A NAME="P19"></A>19}</SPAN> +of men who could paint as well +as they and were threatening to do it, the charming group dissolved in +a year or two, one after another, returning to their homes in various +parts of the world. Not one that I know of is living now, and nearly +all whom I could trace in later years had gone into trade, and +flourished there. +</P> + +<P> +But my acquaintance with Paris had begun. It was to be extended in +subsequent years. What chiefly remains in my recollection concerning +those early days is that for the first time I had the consciousness of +being in a foreign country. I never had that in England, no, not for a +minute, and no one, then or since, ever tried to make me feel it there. +Of course, part of the difference was due to language, but not all the +difference. There were subtle differences in France, and some plain, +outstanding ones. The English are kindly people, hospitable, and, if I +must say so—and I think I must, having lived through three years of +the great war with them, to say nothing of many preceding years—they +are naïve. The Englishman, if he liked you, took you to his home, but +he said that the Frenchman did not. But he did, I found. And I found +that the Frenchman, if less kindly, was more polite. The Frenchman had +either clearer ideas or none at all about other nationalities; the +Englishman—but really, these reflections do not belong in this book, +but in another, if anywhere. I will not prolong them here, but say +only that I was in Paris fairly often after that first visit and that I +liked it the more the more I knew it. +</P> + +<SPAN CLASS="pagenum">{<A NAME="P20"></A>20}</SPAN> + +<P> +But I am forgetting my friend Monsieur Raoul de St. Ange. I would not +willingly forget my friend St. Ange. In fact, I could not forget him. +He was a delightful man of fifty or thereabouts, a dear and gracious +person. I had met him in London where he was giving lessons in French, +and trying to make a French weekly paper pay its way and earn him +something over. He was of Norman birth, and had lived fairly well in +Paris up to the time of the Commune, when he had been ruined. He +emigrated to London. He had a wife and two small sons. The boys were +about ten and twelve respectively. This little family lived in a +little house at Shepherd's Bush. The house was very simple, but it was +as neat as wax. I used to help St. Ange a little with the English +section of his paper, and in return he gave me lessons in French. +</P> + +<P> +One day he said to me: "I must go to Normandy; a week there. It will +give me the greatest pleasure if you come." And so I arranged to meet +him at Amiens on my return from Paris. He had some family affairs to +settle, something to do with the children, and a bit of property that +had been left in trust for them. In Normandy we would see some of his +people, a bit of France from the inside not the outside. I jumped at +the chance. We met at Amiens, and explored the Cathedral before doing +anything else. He knew somebody there, or somebody knew of him, and we +were taken all over the wonderful Cathedral, from roof to crypt. We +were so long at this that we concluded to spend the night in Amiens, +and push on, next morning, by train to +<SPAN CLASS="pagenum">{<A NAME="P21"></A>21}</SPAN> +a village some thirty miles +or more away, which was one of the objectives of his visit. +</P> + +<P> +The name of that village I have clean forgotten. It has passed like +many other names that were supposed to be fixed there. But forgotten +it is, although the place itself is associated with memories of rustic +hospitality more generous than anything that has ever come my way. +Well, we arrived at the village of the forgotten name, and we put up at +the house of the station master, in the station building itself. There +was no inn. The station master was somehow, somewhere, within St. +Ange's circle of friends. He took charge of our kits and showed me to +what I am sure was the best bedroom. I had a guilty feeling that the +occupants must have turned out for my benefit; but one can only defer +to the custom of the country. +</P> + +<P> +Presently Monsieur Station Master, and Madame Station Master, and +little Station Master <I>fils</I> appeared, each in best bib and tucker, and +led the way across the fields, to a little thatched farmhouse two miles +distant. The railway contingent evidently were making holiday. All +the way we walked through fields of grain, in a wide path which came, +by and by, to a little bridge over a chattering stream, and then to a +road, and around a bend in the road to the farmhouse, thatched, moss +and flowers growing in the thatch, and a family growing in the door, +for the doorway was filled with humans of ages from eight to eighty, in +rows and tiers. As we drew near there was such a display of waving +handkerchiefs and joyous shouts as would have +<SPAN CLASS="pagenum">{<A NAME="P22"></A>22}</SPAN> +gratified William +the Conqueror himself had he been passing. +</P> + +<P> +St. Ange was smothered in embraces, and I was bidden in, not to the +embraces, but to a seat in the fireside, after salutations all round. +St. Ange had not been in these parts for twenty years. He was trustee +for some of these younkers, and had now come to be relieved of his +trust, as the younkers were of age in the eyes of the law. You would +have thought that I was a benefactor, so generous were their +attentions. Food and wine were pressed upon me. What the good folk +were saying did not enter my comprehension; the twists of the Norman +tongue were beyond me. But smiles are translatable in any language and +so are hearty courtesies. Presently what appeared to be the whole +population of the neighbouring countryside streamed in, and St. Ange +and his American friend had to meet them all. We met like old friends. +Then St. Ange took me to call upon some old folk in a cottage not far +away. We must have been a couple of hours calling about. When we +returned to the first place a dinner was ready for us, and we for it. +</P> + +<P> +The fat of the land was before us. There was every kind of good thing +that grew in Normandy. And there was wine of the country, and plenty +of it. The triumph of the occasion was duck,—duck such as I never ate +before, and have not eaten since, not even in Paris, where they have a +subtle skill in cooking these things. I could write rhapsodies about +that duck. When, even nowadays, I am seeking to whet appetite, I think +of the ducks I ate in Norman +<SPAN CLASS="pagenum">{<A NAME="P23"></A>23}</SPAN> +cottages. No one has eaten duck who +has not eaten it in Normandy where every housewife seemed to me a +marvel of a cook. I was in Normandy a week, lunched and dined and +supped in a different house each day—they were chiefly the homes of +cottage folk—and, for abundance and good feeding, I still regard it as +a land of miracle. +</P> + +<P> +How I praised the duck at that first dinner, and extolled Madame's +skill in cookery! Madame was pleased. Have I conveyed the impression +that these were wealthy folk? It was not my intention to do so. They +were Normandy peasants, which may mean anything or little as far as +well-being goes. The room in which we ate was the living room, +cooking-washing-eating-room. I daresay that behind a panel, or a +curtain, there was an alcove with a bed. Anyhow, there was one in an +adjoining room. And over the dining table was a loft to which you +mounted by a ladder which was slung against the ceiling, when not +wanted, by rope and pulley. The dining-room floor was of earth, hard +packed, hard as nails, clean as the proverbial whistle. Everything +shone with cleanliness—windows, napery, brass, pewter, plates, +kettles—if all the belongings of the room had whistled there would +have been a bellow as if the siren of a big liner had blown. Such +cleanliness and such cooking I have not found in all the years that +followed in the many English cottages I have known, but I met the +combination three or four times a day for six or seven days, each time +beneath a different roof. +</P> + +<P> +St. Ange and I walked back across the fields by +<SPAN CLASS="pagenum">{<A NAME="P24"></A>24}</SPAN> +moonlight, +Monsieur, Madame, and Toddlekins Station Master, and two from our +feasting house, accompanying us. That night I slept like a top. At +noon what was my surprise and joy to find another duck, duly prepared +and cooked by our hostess of the preceding day, waiting for me on the +station master's table. It had been brought by one of her small fry +with the lady's compliments. There was a compliment fit for a prince! +Have I mentioned the wine that graced the basket, and the miraculous +green peas that were to melt in the mouth? Ah, well, it was long ago, +and it was hospitality. +</P> + +<P> +In that way did Normandy receive us at every halt, whether we called at +farm, or cottage, or château. Was there ever such a country for eating +and drinking, I wondered. At last we arrived at Rouen. We had driven +in from the country, and somewhat wearied and dusty with the journey, +we were hurried by a stout and jolly man, a gigantic person who was in +waiting on the road, to a delightful dwelling in the town where three +generations of St. Ange's relatives welcomed us and would have haled us +forthwith to the seats of honour, but that we pleaded for a wash and a +change. +</P> + +<P> +It was twelve o'clock when we gathered at table. It was four when we +rose. And when we rose, something else was served in the next room. +And I was told that we must dine at another house, at seven; I think +seven was the hour. And we were to sup at a third party at eleven! +But I had become accustomed to this splendour of generosity. St. Ange +had warned me at Amiens that it was inevitable, +<SPAN CLASS="pagenum">{<A NAME="P25"></A>25}</SPAN> +and could n't be +shirked. And so, after the first heroic occasion, the memorable affair +of duck at the cottage, I made a great show of eating and drinking, so +that these valiant Norman trenchermen would not think me rude and +neglectful, and speedily I learned how to keep up the appearance of +feasting and of still having a wee-bit appetite at the end. That was +doing pretty well, I think, for a novice. And it required some skill +in calculation, for at each table there was everything, and abundance +of everything, that gourmets or gourmands could desire to eat and +drink. In seven days there were twenty-one such feasts! +</P> + +<P> +When we reached London, on our homeward journey, I called for sausage +and mashed, and a tankard of bitter, by way of return to the simple +life. +</P> + +<P> +But the kindness of it all, the generous hospitality; the opening of +hearts to a stranger who comes with an old friend or relative,—in +forty years I have seen nothing to equal it. The gentleman who killed +the fatted calf offered but a Barmecide feast in comparison with the +provender of my Norman friends. +</P> + +<P> +A few days after the return from France a telegram came to me from St. +Ange, saying that his boy was seriously ill, and asking me to come at +once. In the evening I went as quickly as I could to Shepherd's Bush. +The little chap had taken a chill, pneumonia had supervened. The +doctor was in the house when I arrived. "Can't live through the +night," he said. The parents were with the little fellow. I dozed +below in an armchair, knowing that there was need +<SPAN CLASS="pagenum">{<A NAME="P26"></A>26}</SPAN> +of sleep if I +were to see these good people through the crest of their trouble. An +hour after midnight the mother came and said: "It is finished! Yes, +dead. I am anxious for <I>mon mari</I>. He will not move, or speak. He +sits staring—<I>comme ça</I>. Please go to him." +</P> + +<P> +I aroused St. Ange and made him come with me. All night till dawn I +walked him, through Shepherd's Bush, through Hammersmith, across the +Bridge, across Barnes Common, through Mortlake and Richmond, and back +again, making him talk and tiring him out. That was the object, to +counter his nervous excitement by physical fatigue and to divert his +mind. I brought him home at sunrise, limp, exhausted. He slept for +ten hours. +</P> + +<P> +I had to make him see that the world had not come to a standstill, that +there was no "copy" for his paper, and so on. I saw his printers, his +publishers, and some other people he knew who turned out "copy." +Between them all they saw him through the worst of his problems. This +brought me in a practical way into connection with the outer fringes of +Fleet Street and London journalism, and in my odd hours I learned how +"copy" was prepared for the compositors, how proofs were corrected, how +"forms" were made up, and before long was able to assist some of my new +acquaintances when they were pressed for time at these games. +</P> + +<P> +It was natural enough that in following these lines as a joyous amateur +I should drift into journalism. I never intended to stay in it, I +preferred to write books; but in those days that seemed a mad +<SPAN CLASS="pagenum">{<A NAME="P27"></A>27}</SPAN> +thing to do,—to write books and expect to earn money by them. In +journalism, if one got his "stuff" printed, he got paid, and, if one +knew the ropes, he had n't to wait forever for the payment. There was +a certain attractiveness about being paid for work one liked to do, and +I liked writing better than anything else. And I liked the rush and +pressure of journalism as I saw these things manifested in the +experience of my friends. They had adventures too; I also would have +them. It seemed possible to know everybody, go everywhere, see +everything, and, if one worked the ropes with skill, he might remain +his own master. One saw it all through rose-coloured glasses. How +else should youth see anything? +</P> + +<P> +Even to-day I see St. Ange through the rose-coloured glasses of memory. +It is the only way possible, for except in memory I have not seen him +in all these years since we returned from Normandy and his boy died. +Within a month from the funeral Raoul St. Ange and his wife vanished. +They had returned to France, 't was said, but no one knew. His pupils +did not know, his printers did not know, his paper was dying. I +suppose he had n't the heart to face the obsequies. He merely +vanished. No inquiry revealed him. Never a letter, never a wire, +never a trace of any kind in forty years. +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="chap04"></A> + +<SPAN CLASS="pagenum">{<A NAME="P28"></A>28}</SPAN> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +CHAPTER IV +</H3> + +<H4 ALIGN="center"> +I TAKE THE PLUNGE +</H4> + +<P> +I have never been so old as I was during my first three or four years +in London. It is, or at any rate it used to be, a common delusion of +youth that the mantle of years has descended upon its shoulders. In my +case the shoulders could have carried a large mantle. I was tall and +big framed, earning my living in a foreign country, where, by the way, +I felt completely at home; my habits of thought were far beyond those +which custom fixes for the 'teens, and all my associates were older +than myself, most of them much older. In the work which circumstances +and I laid out, youth was by others supposed to be a disadvantage, so +that it might have been natural had I assumed the merit of a maturity +which I did not possess. But I was not compelled to assume it. It was +attributed to me. Nobody supposed that I was under nineteen. I was +supposed to be at least half a dozen years older. +</P> + +<P> +My first editor was George Parsons Lathrop, of the <I>Boston Courier</I>. +He was a son-in-law of Nathaniel Hawthorne, and he achieved the honour +of editing my copy by the alacrity with which he published it for +nothing. As the suggestion was +<SPAN CLASS="pagenum">{<A NAME="P29"></A>29}</SPAN> +my own the acceptance of +non-compensated work was entirely fair. If his paper could stand it, I +could. I wanted practise, and Lathrop wanted copy. He was perfectly +willing that I should practise in his columns. I did n't know him from +Adam, but had written to him enclosing a "London Letter" which +solicited his acceptance on gratuitous terms. Beneath my generosity +was a design. Not only did I need practice but I wanted to be known as +the London Correspondent of an American paper, in order to have the +<I>entrée</I> at theatres, concerts, political gatherings, and other public +functions. After sufficient practice with Lathrop, I would endeavour +to sell copy in other quarters. The plan succeeded. +</P> + +<P> +When the period of gratuitous service had stretched far enough, a +Boston journal of much interest and overwhelming respectability, +deigned graciously to pay five dollars a letter for my London "stuff." +The magnitude of this offer did not shock me, but five dollars meant a +sovereign, and the addition of twenty shillings to one's weekly income +suggested wealth to a young scribbler in London. Three or four letters +had been despatched when, one evening, an expensive acquaintance who +had rooms above mine, near Queen Square, dropped in at my snug chambers +and spun a yarn. He had "seen Leighton, you know, President of the +Royal Academy, good sort, dev'lish good fellow. What do you suppose he +'s done now? Taken up a sculptor in Paris, French of course, poor as I +am, poorer, if it 's possible to be poorer than I am, and has had a +piece of the chap's work sent over here for exhibit at the +<SPAN CLASS="pagenum">{<A NAME="P30"></A>30}</SPAN> +Academy. Sculptor could n't send it. No money. Not even a studio. +Devilled for years in other men's studios. Leighton saw, says fellow +must become known in London. Got artist chaps to pay expenses of +sending over. Good fellow, Leighton. Go see it, you! Press +Day—Royal Academy—next week. Forgot French chap's name!" +</P> + +<P> +This brought to my recollection the fact that in Paris, the previous +Easter, when haunting Bohemia with a pack of student friends, I had +heard of a needy sculptor who was doing things of strange power, and +was hard up because he would not work in accepted forms, but persisted +in carving things that nobody wanted. And who, in those days, would +buy sculpture from an "artist unknown"? My friends promised that I +should meet the man, but I was called away from Paris before this could +be arranged. +</P> + +<P> +I went to the Royal Academy on Press Day, and saw the specimen of the +"new man's" work. I was quite alone with it. One is always sure to be +alone in the Statuary Room of the Royal Academy. An article came out +of the silence. It went to my five-dollar editor. He responded with +this note: +</P> + +<BR> + +<P> +"Sorry we can't pay for any more of your letters. We printed the last +one, but, really, we don't want articles about unknown sculptors, +especially French ones." +</P> + +<BR> + +<P> +The unknown sculptor, whose name, of course, I gave, was Auguste Rodin! +</P> + +<P> +I subsequently heard that the article was the +<SPAN CLASS="pagenum">{<A NAME="P31"></A>31}</SPAN> +first about Rodin to +be published in America, and that an artist and fellow townsman of +mine, Henry Bacon, then in Paris, brought it to his attention. Months +afterward, having followed me half around the world, there arrived by +post a big and battered parcel. It contained a photograph of the +sculpture I had seen, the bust of Rodin's "St. John Preaching", and the +large mount bore Auguste Rodin's autograph with a grateful message to +me. I had the trophy framed and hung over the fireplace in my +chambers, and there, whether the fireplace were in England or America, +it has hung ever since. If I were the first to give Auguste Rodin +public recognition in my country, he was the first anywhere to +acknowledge my stumbling work. +</P> + +<P> +Vocation was pressing its claims more heavily than usual about that +time and there was little opportunity to pursue a project I had formed +for writing a series of articles upon "The London of Disraeli." +Everybody in pendom had written of "Dickens' London", and "Thackeray's +London", and after "Endymion" had made its loudly trumpeted appearance, +it occurred to me that Disraeli had a London which the makers of +articles had not seized upon and which would yield "material" for +interesting copy. This, if well illustrated, might appeal to some +magazine editor in America and subsequently become a book. At the same +time I was gathering notes and impressions for a series of papers which +might be called "Odd Corners of London." For things of this kind +America seemed to promise an especially good market, and I believed +<SPAN CLASS="pagenum">{<A NAME="P32"></A>32}</SPAN> +that I could supply it fairly well. One thing after another +delayed this little plan. Vocation was taking up more time and at +higher pressure than is compatible with hobby-riding. It has a habit +of doing so. Then a visit to America intervened, for the purpose of +spending my twenty-first birthday, and the following five or six +months, at home. The return to England was followed by a rush of work +in the City, and this by an illness of some weeks' duration. All the +while the Disraeli subject lay untouched until, one day in 1882, I met +a character in a Disraeli novel, who was much more of a character +outside it. +</P> + +<P> +It was a day of powerful rain. The Pullman Company were to run their +first train in England over the Brighton line from Victoria Station. +They had invited a regiment of celebrities and a few odd sticks. Among +the latter I was included by some official of my acquaintance who +thought I might write an article for some overseas paper. Taking a +place in a smoking car I was solitary for but a minute, when George +Augustus Sala entered hurriedly and plumped himself down beside me, +saying: "What a beastly, blowy, wet morning!" +</P> + +<P> +"The worst since Noah's time," said I. +</P> + +<P> +"If this train gets to Brighton and returns through the flood, it will +be another case not only of pull man, but also of pull devil, pull +baker," said Sala. +</P> + +<P> +"There 's copy for you," said I. +</P> + +<P> +"Oh, are you a journalist?" asked Sala. +</P> + +<P> +"I 'm hoping to be. It's an aspiration." +</P> + +<P> +"Desperation, more likely," he said. "Don't do +<SPAN CLASS="pagenum">{<A NAME="P33"></A>33}</SPAN> +it, young man, not +if there 's a good crossing to sweep in your neighbourhood. Journalism +is the worst trade in the world." +</P> + +<P> +"Every man says that of his own profession," I replied. +</P> + +<P> +"Profession be hanged! What do we profess? We stain paper, and look +as wise as owls, and know a damned sight more than we ever tell. Most +of us bleat in our folds like sheep; few of us have the chance to go +about the world and see things, and even they work like slaves to +entertain the public while their owners take the profits. The worst +trade in the world, sir; work harder, know more than any other—about +human nature, anyhow—and get less for it than any other; what we write +is forgotten the day after it's printed, and when we can't grind out +any more, when they 've squeezed our brains dry, we 're thrown on the +dust-heap to be buried by a benevolent association. Don't go into +journalism unless you own the paper! That's where the profits are—big +circulation and advertising revenue, politics and peerages! I 'm too +old for aiming at ownership now; besides, I 'm a writer, not a screw! +Journalism be hanged. If I 'd been a <I>chef</I> in a millionaire's palace, +or a fashionable hotel, I 'd have done better." +</P> + +<P> +Possibly. At any rate he would have been the prince of <I>chefs</I> as he +was "the prince of journalists", or was it the king the public called +him? He was supposed to earn fabulous sums with his pen. If he earned +them he spent them, for he left nothing when he had "gone west." He +was an artist in +<SPAN CLASS="pagenum">{<A NAME="P34"></A>34}</SPAN> +cookery, had a knowing taste in wines; he had +been everywhere, seen everything, knew everybody, and on the shortest +possible notice could write an article upon anything or nothing. He +had a flaming face, small, glittering eyes, a build and frontage not +unlike that of Pierpont Morgan of later fame, and a reputation for wit +and story-telling. He had also a reputation for geniality. He was as +genial as a thunderstorm. His rumblings and clatters might pass quite +harmless, or sear you with a flash. His familiar signature was "G.A.S." +</P> + +<P> +"I see you don't believe it," said he, "but you will. Don't say I did +n't warn you." +</P> + +<P> +"Thanks," said I. +</P> + +<P> +"Not in the least," said he. "Go to your doom! What's your paper?" +</P> + +<P> +I said I had written for two or three papers at home, in America, and I +told him the story of the editor who did n't want Rodin. He laughed +until his white waistcoat nearly burst its buttons. "I had an editor +once," said he, "who didn't know the date of the Battle of Waterloo but +was certain that Nelson had saved the day. Journalism a 'profession', +eh? And editors are the High Board of Examiners. But don't mind me. +I 'm like this on wet mornings." +</P> + +<P> +Just then a wet prelate in a shaggy coat shook himself at the door, as +if he were a huge dog that had soaked in the rain. His prelacy was +revealed by the purple at his throat. +</P> + +<P> +"Monsignor Capel," exclaimed Sala. "How are you? And did you come in +a boat?" +</P> + +<SPAN CLASS="pagenum">{<A NAME="P35"></A>35}</SPAN> + +<P> +"The voyage from Kensington was rough," said the prelate, "but this +seems a snug harbour." +</P> + +<P> +"Make fast to moorings here, and to-morrow the envious will say that +G.A.S. is travelling Rome-wards with you on an American train." +</P> + +<P> +"Undreamed-of felicity," said the prelate. "But I think we shall not +go far toward Rome to-day. This train has no 'through connection', as +they say in America. This is my first experience in an American train, +but not, of course, your first, Mr. Sala. Possibly your first, sir," +he said, turning to me, as he took a seat beside Sala. +</P> + +<P> +"Oh, no, I 'm an American," said I. +</P> + +<P> +"Then I am doubly fortunate," said the Monsignor. "Because I am going +to America and you can tell me how to get about, if you will be so +good." This was a pleasant way to break the ice, and as the train +filled, presently we had a pleasant company and were speedily at +Brighton, where the Pullman people entertained their trainload at +luncheon. On the return journey Monsignor Capel sat opposite me at a +table built for two, and talked about America. That is to say, he +asked questions and I answered them, as we smoked the Pullman cigars. +As we parted at Victoria, he invited me to dine at his house, making an +appointment for the following week. +</P> + +<P> +He was not only a clever man and "striking", as they say, in +appearance, but he had great charm, and being a Jesuit of brilliant and +varied accomplishments, could adapt himself easily to any company. As +a preacher he was eloquent; as a man of the world he was brilliant and +fascinating; as an +<SPAN CLASS="pagenum">{<A NAME="P36"></A>36}</SPAN> +ecclesiastic distinguished and influential; as +a maker of titled, wealthy, and in the worldly sense "important" +converts to Rome he was famous, but as the administrator of a college +or university he proved a failure. He was a prominent figure in London +life; he was the Monsignor Catesby of "Lothair", as Manning was the +Cardinal Grandison. If his fortunes had begun to ebb at the time I +knew him, the glamour of his successes was still about him. +</P> + +<P> +Disraeli had described Catesby as "a fascinating man who talked upon +all subjects except high mass, and knew everything that took place at +Court without being present there himself. He led the conversation to +the majestic theme, and while he seemed to be busied in breaking an egg +with delicate precision, and hardly listening to the frank expression +of opinions which he carelessly encouraged, obtained a not insufficient +share of Lothair's views and impressions of human beings and affairs in +general." +</P> + +<P> +I dined with Monsignor Capel on several occasions at Scarsdale Lodge, +in Wright's Lane, Kensington. Scarsdale Lodge has for many years known +a succession of celebrated tenants, of whom Dundreary Sothern was one. +Sothern had also lived at Cedar Villa, next door, and Capel had +succeeded him there. Now, and for many years, Scarsdale Lodge has been +the town home of H. Hughes-Stanton, R.A., whom I have known from almost +the beginning of things. Up to the year preceding the Pullman +excursion Monsignor Capel had lived in Cedar Villa. Sothern had made +that place famous for breakfasts and suppers and practical jokes. +<SPAN CLASS="pagenum">{<A NAME="P37"></A>37}</SPAN> +Capel's breakfasts had been quite as famous without the practical +jokes. Capel had transformed Sothern's billiard room into a chapel. +The dining room in which the actor had "exposed" the "feats" of the +Davenport brothers, and where the lights of Bohemia had twinkled, had, +under the prelate's tenancy, been noted for its hospitality to pilgrims +from the polite world who were on the way to Rome. But the line was +not drawn at hungry hearts. Palates that were used to dainty feasts +were tickled there, and brilliant table talk of politics and art, of +literature and science and society had rippled there. Capel's +hospitality was wide; his guests were, as likely as not, +non-conformists—if they dared to come—Anglicans who dared +anything—and political men of all shades of opinion, especially +anti-Gladstonian opinion. But disciples of the G.O.M. were welcome if +they were good talkers. They might be converted to other politics; at +any rate they would hear them. +</P> + +<P> +Monsignor Capel at home was in purple-edged cassock, with purple +buttons and broad purple sash. If in his shaggy overcoat he had +suggested bulk, in his cassock and biretta he was a dignified, even an +imposing figure. He received me in his study at the twilight hour. +The fire-glow played over the room, while the papal chamberlain +submitted to the processes of an interview. But "submitted" is +scarcely the right word; it is merely the word that custom applies to +the extraction of copy from a willing subject. He had invited the +interviewer and did not pretend that the interview +<SPAN CLASS="pagenum">{<A NAME="P38"></A>38}</SPAN> +was torture. +We sat by the fire and spun. The room was on the ground floor of the +house and in the rear, overlooking the garden. His writing desk was in +a bay window, and above it a crucifix was suspended. Near it, on the +left wall, hung a large photograph of Pope Pius IX and his household. +The Monsignor himself was not inconspicuous in this. About the room +were a dozen or more photographs of celebrities. Among these was a +photograph of Gladstone. "I keep that here as a penance," said Capel, +to whom the name of the "Grand Old Man" was anathema. +</P> + +<P> +Capel alluded to himself as a "lamb" in politics, but his allusion to +politicians opposed to his way of thinking were anything but lamblike +that early evening. He had published a pamphlet called "Great Britain +and Rome, or Ought the Queen to Hold Diplomatic Relations with the +Sovereign Pontiff?" Of course he held that she ought, and he said so +to the immense disapproval of the majority of his fellow countrymen. +He had also produced a pamphlet on the Irish Question which, then as +now, could be counted on for enraging and puzzling half the population. +The solution proposed by him, was, I believe, more Roman Catholicism, +but why and how to get more of what was already in excess one did not +see then, and sees now even less than before. +</P> + +<P> +But Capel's star was dimming. His Catholic college, or university, or +whatever it was, had failed for lack of support and faults of +administration, and the financial troubles were soon to drive him to +the +<SPAN CLASS="pagenum">{<A NAME="P39"></A>39}</SPAN> +bankruptcy court, if they had not already done so. And His +Eminence Cardinal Manning had thrown his influence against the +captivating Monsignor. The Cardinal had his reasons, and, I suppose, +they were good reasons. At any rate, like Shylock's, they were +sufficient. When the Cardinal was against a man in his flock, that +man's chances for preferment, and even for holding his own, were not +worth discussing. Capel went to America in 1883. He sailed on the +<I>Arizona</I> whose captain was the brother of my friend, Henry Murray. +The Monsignor made a meteoric flash over the American continent. I saw +him there. And then the continent swallowed him. He died in +California, if not unknown then practically forgotten. +</P> + +<P> +The sequel to my visit at Scarsdale Lodge was an article, and the +article was sent, on chance, to the <I>Boston Herald</I>, then the leading +newspaper in New England and of almost metropolitan importance. I did +not know any one connected with the paper, not even the editor's name. +But the article was printed, although I did not know that until some +months later, at the end of 1882, when I turned up in Boston, at the +<I>Herald</I> office, and asked for the editor, sending him my card with a +message of inquiry about the article which I had posted to him from +London some months earlier. +</P> + +<P> +I intended to ask him for a job, for I had decided to settle awhile in +Boston and turn my London experiences to account if the opportunity +could be made. +</P> + +<P> +A boy came to the room where I had waited on the anxious seat for an +unhappy quarter of an hour. +</P> + +<SPAN CLASS="pagenum">{<A NAME="P40"></A>40}</SPAN> + +<P> +"Mr. Holmes will see you," he said. "Come this way." +</P> + +<P> +Holmes was the man's name, was it! Yes, John H. I had learned that +much, and I followed the boy to an inner office. A dark-haired, +slender, agreeable-mannered man, who looked rather like the Whitelaw +Reid of that time, rose from his desk. As he did so I said: +</P> + +<P> +"Mr. Holmes, I believe." +</P> + +<P> +"Yes," said he, "and you are the writer of that article?" naming it. +</P> + +<P> +"Yes," said I. +</P> + +<P> +He held out his hand, and smiled. We shook hands, and I tried to look +as if it were my daily occupation to be welcomed by the editors of +powerful journals. Naturally, I did n't feel that way, and was +nervously wondering what to say next. That anxiety vanished as the +editor asked: +</P> + +<P> +"Are you at liberty to do any more work of that kind, or of any special +kind, for us?" +</P> + +<P> +"Yes," said I, concealing, I hoped, my eagerness and delight. +</P> + +<P> +"Then I will take as much as you are willing to write," said he, "and +pay you ten dollars a column, and when you go anywhere for us, your +expense bill." +</P> + +<P> +This seemed a fair beginning, particularly as I had not been compelled +to ask for it, as I had expected to do. When I closed the door behind +me and descended the stairs, I felt an elation of spirit that was +natural enough in a young chap who was more than five months short of +his twenty-third birthday. +</P> + +<SPAN CLASS="pagenum">{<A NAME="P41"></A>41}</SPAN> + +<P> +And so, with the beginning of 1883, I took the plunge into journalism. +There followed five more or less adventurous years which carried me +from one end of the country to the other and across the Atlantic and +back again. Then in 1888, I was appointed London correspondent of the +same paper, a position which I held for nine years until called +elsewhere. It is with memories and impressions of the London Days of +that time, and of some of their celebrated personages, that the +following pages are concerned. +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="chap05"></A> + +<SPAN CLASS="pagenum">{<A NAME="P42"></A>42}</SPAN> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +CHAPTER V +</H3> + +<H4 ALIGN="center"> +BROWNING AND MOSCHELES +</H4> + +<P> +You will look in vain now for the old brown-brick bungalow that stood, +for the most part concealed by trees and shrubs, within the railings of +the park-like enclosure halfway down Sloane Street, on the left-hand +side, as you go from Knightsbridge. It stood there till the end of the +eighties. If you walked there in the days of my early acquaintance +with it, or glided through Sloane Street in a hansom, the chances were +that the bungalow would still escape your glance, sheltered as it was +by foliage. But from the top of any 'bus you could make it out +readily, and you would wonder, as most 'bus fares did, what lucky or +eccentric fellow lived within the very plain walls and had all that +Cadogan enclosure as a back garden. Probably your neighbour on the +'bus top would tell you, 'bus neighbours being at all times well +stocked with misinformation, that the favoured dwelling was the home of +the gardener of the enclosure. But it was not. It was the home of my +delightful friend, Felix Moscheles, and there you could find Robert +Browning almost any Sunday afternoon when he was in London. +</P> + +<SPAN CLASS="pagenum">{<A NAME="P43"></A>43}</SPAN> + +<P> +Felix Stone Moscheles was the son of Ignaz Moscheles, composer and +pianist, whose intimate friendship with Mendelssohn is revealed in the +latter's published correspondence. Felix was born in London February +8, 1833, at Number 3 Chester Place, Regent's Park, and Mendelssohn +acted as his godfather at the christening in St. Pancras Church. Felix +died at Tunbridge Wells, December 22, 1917. He was as kind a man as +ever lived. He was an artist by profession, fond of music and +musicians, as you might expect him to be; he spoke several languages +fluently and with equal charm—English, French, German, Esperanto, and +I know not what else—and he was passionately attached to movements for +world peace. We know that nothing made for the peace of the world down +to mid-1914; that while Germany had been deceiving it, the world had +lulled itself to sleep with "drowsy syrups" and ecstatic daydreams. I +think the awakening killed my dear old friend. That is not surprising. +He was over eighty-one when the war broke out, and almost eighty-five +when he died. Down to 1913, when I saw him last, I used to say that he +was the youngest man of my acquaintance. He had the optimism of youth, +its buoyant spirit, its gallant outlook. +</P> + +<P> +When I first knew Moscheles he was only fifty-five or fifty-six, and he +was passing cakes to the ladies, while his wife poured tea, and a +stoutish man in a grey checked suit, and with grey moustache and +chin-beard, was talking something which seemed like philosophy, and was +certainly not +<SPAN CLASS="pagenum">{<A NAME="P44"></A>44}</SPAN> +poetry, to a mixed group in a cosy corner. It was +one of the happy points about Moscheles' Sunday afternoons that if you +cared to continue talking with another caller and the other caller +cared to continue to listen, or to talk with you, you were not routed +up to exchange commonplaces about the weather with somebody else who +needed to be assured that it rained, or that the sun was shining. You +could flit from group to group, and find a place where you fitted, and +the host or hostess would contrive, if you were unknown, to make you +known to some one without interrupting some one else's story, so that +no one was left adorning the wall. +</P> + +<P> +The stoutish, grey man in the grey checked suit was Robert Browning +whose afternoon-tea manner was quite simple, as unaffected as that of a +bank-chairman contemplating dividends or deposits. He was not in the +least a posing poet. He had been a great friend of Moscheles for a +long time, and the latter spoke of him as "my literary godfather." +Moscheles, at this time, was preparing for publication "Felix +Mendelssohn's letters to Ignaz and Charlotte Moscheles." I had +something to do with persuading him to write "In Bohemia with George Du +Maurier." I had been looking in his studio through a mass of autograph +letters and sketches relating to his years in Paris as an art student, +the "Trilby" years, and, as Du Maurier's book and the play adapted from +it were the rage of the time, Felix was encouraged to write around the +letters he had, and Du Maurier's early sketches, and about the +characters in the romance of the hour, and to +<SPAN CLASS="pagenum">{<A NAME="P45"></A>45}</SPAN> +send some of the +chapters to the <I>Century Magazine</I>, and afterward to produce the whole +as a book. +</P> + +<P> +Moscheles was brought up among celebrities, and was surrounded by the +famous all his life. Mendelssohn, Joachim, Malibran, Lablache were, in +his boyhood, family friends. He attracted distinguished persons as +long as he lived. When he was thirteen the family moved from London to +Leipzig, at Mendelssohn's instigation. Mendelssohn was eager that his +friend, Moscheles' father, should become a professor in the +Conservatoire which he was founding at Leipzig. And so the move was +made, Ignaz Moscheles relinquishing his London career and its worldly +advantages in order to live near his friend. Felix, who at ten had +begun his education at King's College, London, had, at thirteen, to +find it in Germany. But not for long; when he was seventeen, +determined to become an artist, he began studying drawing and painting +in Paris, at the Atelier Gleyre. Having seen something of the troubles +of Germany in 1848, he was now to see the troubles of France which led +to and followed the flight of Louis Philippe, and attended the <I>coup +d'état</I>. +</P> + +<P> +It was during the Atelier Gleyre period that he met George du Maurier +and had the amusing experiences he described afterwards in the book to +which I have alluded. From Paris he went to Antwerp, where he studied +under Van Lorino at De Keyser's Academy, and where he had as fellow +students Laurens Alma-Tadema, Maris, and Heyermans. I don't know when +he returned to London +<SPAN CLASS="pagenum">{<A NAME="P46"></A>46}</SPAN> +to settle down, but when he did so he began +a career that was to be rich in friendships, helpful to all, and +productive in portraiture. +</P> + +<P> +As a portrait painter he was at his best, I think. As long ago as +1862, in his studio at Cadogan Gardens, he painted a portrait of +Mazzini which, after Mazzini's death, he offered to present to Italy. +But official Italy at that time was not desiring portraits of Mazzini +and the offer was declined. Now, after the painter's death, the +portrait goes to a museum at Milan. In 1882, Moscheles visited +America, accompanying his friends Henry Irving and Ellen Terry on their +first journey over the Atlantic. He painted Grover Cleveland, during +the week when Cleveland was first elected to the Presidency, and talked +with him of the subjects which absorbed the artist,—International +Arbitration and Universal Peace. His portrait of Browning went to the +Armour Institute, Chicago. Other portraits of his which were quite +remarkable, which linger in the memory, were of his mother, Charlotte +Moscheles, Rubinstein, H. M. Stanley, Gounod, Sarasate, Tom Mann, +Israels, Stepniak, George Jacob Holyoake (at the age of eighty); he +made beautiful water colours of Venice, of Spain, of Sicily, of Cairo, +of Tunis, of Algerian subjects; and later was quite fascinated by his +scheme of painting a series of "Pictures with a Purpose." +</P> + +<P> +But the "Pictures with a Purpose" did not, I think, attract persons +less purposeful than the painter. They were socialistic pictures, +reforming, philanthropic, propagandist, as if the painter were +<SPAN CLASS="pagenum">{<A NAME="P47"></A>47}</SPAN> +preaching by paint and canvas. I think his oral preaching was +preferred. +</P> + +<P> +I have mentioned the old brown-brick bungalow where Moscheles lived in +Cadogan Gardens, where I first knew him, and first saw Robert Browning. +Moscheles had lived there for I know not how many years, but when his +lease expired, in the early nineties, the bungalow expired too. The +march of "improvement" was coming down Sloane Street, and the bungalow +was doomed. It disappeared from the gaze of surrounding and jealous +neighbours who might have keys to the gardens but could not live in +those pleasant demesnes. In the Elm Park Road, near the borders of +Chelsea and Fulham, Moscheles found a house with an unusually large +garden. He transformed the house and built a studio which he connected +with it, and there one went to so many melodious evenings and artistic +afternoons that through the years of recollection I seem to behold him +hospitably dispensing tea and bread and butter, attended by swarms of +musicians who were, or were to become, famous; by poets and painters +who had found, or still were seeking, celebrity; by dreamers who were +going to free Russia; or zealous gentlemen, like Baron d'Estournelles +de Constant, who were not only labouring for the Hague Conferences but +for the Parliament of Man. +</P> + +<P> +It was there that Mark Hambourg first played when he came to London. I +remember the occasion well enough, but not the music, for I cannot +forget that phenomenally ugly youngster. He was then +<SPAN CLASS="pagenum">{<A NAME="P48"></A>48}</SPAN> +only a boy. +But the music rippled and thundered from his fingers, while that +amazing head with its torrential hair cast shivering shadows over the +magical keyboard. The unprepossessing youth was then unknown. He +became known soon enough and he ran quickly to the fame that waits upon +pianists of remarkable gifts. +</P> + +<P> +Moscheles was a citizen of the world, which he regarded as his native +country, so it was natural enough that he should take a lively interest +in Esperanto in the days when people thought it a fad, and he became, +as he remained, President of the London Esperanto Club. He was +constantly corresponding with congenial folk in remote countries with +the object of spreading the merits of Esperanto as an auxiliary +language for international intercourse. "Even now," he said a +generation ago, "I can go anywhere with it, and by its aid find +somebody who will make me feel at home." He was a tireless +propagandist. I would venture to say that he loved "propaganding" more +than art. At any rate he could seldom avoid diluting his painting with +propaganda in the contented Victorian era when little wars were fought +every six months and trouble looked for between whiles. How easy it +seemed in those days, when most of us were credulous, to achieve +Liberty by lecturing! +</P> + +<P> +Partly through his zeal for Esperanto and partly through his passion +for a "Free Russia", he was particularly keen to meet Stepniak. I had +known the latter for some years, having as long ago as 1885 or 1886 +written an article about him for the <I>New +<SPAN CLASS="pagenum">{<A NAME="P49"></A>49}</SPAN> +York Tribune</I>. The +meeting with Moscheles was brought about one night at a "Smoke Talk" in +my home in Cheyne Walk, and from that moment the two men became fast +friends, remaining so until Stepniak's tragic death. Whether Stepniak +had or had not killed an official in Russia I don't know, and I do not +care much. If he had killed him I dare say the man deserved it, for, +of all the plundering and oppressive gangs of officialdom, the Russians +of that era had about the worst; they robbed like desperados and they +ruled their land with lies, torture, and corruption. In a country +capable of producing the "Revolution" of 1917 and the later Bolshevism, +anything was possible in the mid-eighties,—anything except the shadow +of freedom. The tall dark Russian with the thin beard and the thin +squeaky voice was a striking contrast to Moscheles, who was grey, and +rather short than tall, and whose quiet geniality was the bloom on a +trustful, generous character that invited confidence. Stepniak used to +say that he never became quite accustomed to the liberty of English +life. The opposite character of Russian habits had bitten too deeply +into him. I remember that when he first came to London he would look +around furtively when in the street, and if we stopped at a corner to +talk he would ask: "Will the police allow this? In Russia they would +not after dark." If he had lived to see London during the Great War he +might have felt much more at home. +</P> + +<P> +No one was ever bored at the Moscheles' afternoons. How could one be +bored when host and +<SPAN CLASS="pagenum">{<A NAME="P50"></A>50}</SPAN> +hostess gave no thought to themselves but all +their thought to their guests? Even the Swami I met there did not +depress my spirits as many Swamis have done. I forget his name. I +have met regiments of them in one country and another. Mostly they +blazed, not with humility but importance. He, I say, had a worldly +air, as if he were an Anglican bishop. He had also a sense of humour +which was not entirely subdued as he listened to an American lady +expounding the doctrine of "Votes for Women." "Madame," said he, "may +I ask a question?" +</P> + +<P> +The lady looked assent. +</P> + +<P> +"Your husband: does he share these views?" +</P> + +<P> +"Not yet," she replied. +</P> + +<P> +"Ah," said the Swami. And there were gusts of laughter. +</P> + +<P> +"I may add," said the lady, "that I am not yet married." +</P> + +<P> +Then the laughter came in shrieks, and the Swami smiled. But this, of +course, was a generation before the suffragettes were brandishing +hatchets like the Redmen, and burning churches and slashing paintings +like the Huns. +</P> + +<P> +But I have alluded to Browning, and have done so because whenever I +think of Moscheles, I always think of him in association with Browning. +Their friendship was very intimate, and that is one fact which shows +the kind of man Moscheles was. After that glimpse and +how-d'ye-do-good-bye at the old brown-brick bungalow which the Earl of +Cadogan was so glad to destroy when the chance arrived to do so, it had +been arranged by Moscheles and the +<SPAN CLASS="pagenum">{<A NAME="P51"></A>51}</SPAN> +poet that we should meet again +with another friend of the three at a little lunch of four. But fate, +or, to be precise, politics, which may be another name for fate, +decided otherwise, and I had to go far afield to chronicle the results. +Never again did that little company come together unless it were at +Browning's open grave, on the midday of the dying year. The reaper +Death had mown quickly. +</P> + +<P> +When the scene shifted to Westminster Abbey, I waited at the cloister +doors till I could pass to a seat in the Poets' Corner. While waiting +at the door, I heard from the pressing throng behind me the voice of an +Irish writer whom I had known and had lost from sight five years +before. While looking for the familiar face that belonged to the +delicious brogue, there came the sound of a great key turning an +ancient lock, and then the door swung open. "Come," said another +friend, and we went in, getting separated before we had gone far, but +taking seats near the draped grave. +</P> + +<P> +Browning's son was chief mourner. The poet had died in his son's home, +the Palazzo Rezzonico, in Venice. And now, this day at Westminster was +the last day of 1889. The great bell of the Abbey began tolling; its +deep notes floated down from its tower as they sought lodgment in the +hearts of the assembling throng, and with every stroke some face +appeared that all England, or the world, knew well. After thirty years +I can recall many of the faces that the grey light of the dull day, +softened by the colouring of the Abbey windows, fell upon. There were +tiers of people. Even the openings in +<SPAN CLASS="pagenum">{<A NAME="P52"></A>52}</SPAN> +the triforium revealed +them, and by the great western doors they were packed, though they +could catch but glimpses of the chancel, and most of them not that. +Huxley's was the first face I saw. I had first seen it in the same +place, almost on the same spot, years before, at Darwin's funeral. Max +Muller and George Meredith were near him now. One thought that England +sent her celebrated living men that day to meet the famous multitudes +whose bodies have been laid away beneath the Abbey pavement for +centuries upon centuries. There were Lord Wolseley and the Lord Chief +Justice, Lord (then Professor) Bryce, Frederic Harrison, Holman Hunt, +Henry Irving, Sidney Colvin, Whistler and Poynter and Alma-Tadema and +Sir John Lubbock (afterwards Lord Avebury). +</P> + +<P> +London was covered with a thickening fog. You could scarcely see the +Abbey from Dean's Yard. Within the Abbey the arches aloft dissolved in +mist, a mist of copper and pale gold where the light glanced through +rose windows. Slipping into one's memory came Mrs. Browning's lines: +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +"—view the city perish in the mist<BR> +Like Pharaoh's armaments in the deep Red Sea,<BR> +The chariots, horsemen, footmen, all the host<BR> +Sucked down and choked to silence."<BR> +</P> + +<BR> + +<P> +Candles from the choir places, and long-chained lamps, sent their soft, +yellow gleams eerily through the veil which seemed to hang above us. +And as the high noon drew near my glances fell upon the historians +Kinglake, Lecky, and Froude. Would +<SPAN CLASS="pagenum">{<A NAME="P53"></A>53}</SPAN> +any one of the three ever +write of this scene in England's history, I wondered? Bret Harte, +Burne-Jones, George du Maurier, Leslie Stephen, William Black, +Bancroft, and John Hare, and the publishers Blackwood, Macmillan, +Murray, and Spottiswoode, ambassadors and ministers, the heads of +universities, of learned societies, were shown to their places, singly +or in groups, or took positions where they could find them, standing +against the monuments. And when no more people could find space, the +Abbey clock struck twelve, and the great west doors swung open, and +down the long central aisle came the funeral train. Then arose the +choral music which for one hundred and seventy years has risen at every +burial within the Abbey, the burial office composed and played by Croft +and Purcell when they were organists at Westminster. +</P> + +<P> +Sir Frederick Bridge is playing it now, as Robert Browning, all there +is of him on earth, is carried on his bier through the dense throng, to +pause a while at the foot of the chancel steps beneath the central +lantern. Choir and clergy precede him. On either side of him walk +Hallam Tennyson, Doctor Butler (of Trinity College, Cambridge), Sir +James Fitzjames Stephen, Sir Theodore Martin, Archdean Farrar, +Professor Masson, Professor Jowett (master of Balliol), Sir Frederick +Leighton, Sir James Paget, Sir George Grove, George Murray Smith +(Browning's publisher), and Professor Knight (of the University of St. +Andrews). Then as the service proceeds (the Archbishop of Canterbury +is here, Dean Vaughan, and others eminent in the +<SPAN CLASS="pagenum">{<A NAME="P54"></A>54}</SPAN> +Church) the +choristers sing a "Meditation" which Sir Frederick Bridge has composed +to Mrs. Browning's poem: +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +"What would we give to our beloved?<BR> +The hero's heart to be unmoved,<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">The poet's star-tuned harp to sweep,</SPAN><BR> +The patriot's voice to teach and rouse,<BR> +The monarch's crown to light the brows?<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">'He giveth His beloved sleep.'</SPAN><BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +"O earth, so full of dreary noises!<BR> +O men, with wailing in your voices!<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">O delved gold, the wailers heap!</SPAN><BR> +O strife, O curse that o'er it fall!<BR> +God strikes a silence through you all,<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">And 'giveth His beloved sleep.'</SPAN><BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +"His dews drop mutely on the hill,<BR> +His cloud above it saileth still,<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">Though on its slopes men sow and reap,</SPAN><BR> +More softly than the dew is shed,<BR> +Or cloud is floated overhead,<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">'He giveth His beloved sleep.'"</SPAN><BR> +</P> + +<BR> + +<P> +The organ and the choir paused; all sounds died away. God struck a +silence through us all. It fell upon a throng that faced the world's +loss as if suddenly confronted by the flight of the soul for whose +absence all mourned. And just then there fell a shaft of sunlight, +golden, magical, touching the bier, and then it faded slowly away. To +many, very many among the silent company, the loss by this death was a +personal one; to all it had more than a touch of that. It must be so +when a great poet dies. What I remember as vividly as all else +<SPAN CLASS="pagenum">{<A NAME="P55"></A>55}</SPAN> +was the great number of young faces in the Abbey, as if the rising +generation did reverence to him who had passed. +</P> + +<P> +By and by the last hymn had been sung, the Dean had pronounced the +benediction, and Bridge, at the great organ, made the old Abbey thrill +to its inmost stones with the vibrating tones of the Dead March from +"Saul." Now the coffin had been lowered into its grave at the foot of +Chaucer's tomb. Before us and at each hand were monuments, tablets, +inlaid stones, marking the burial places of Spenser, Dryden, Gay, of +Butler and Casaubon, Ben Jonson, Addison and Cowley, Prior, Macaulay +and Grote; of Handel, Campbell, Sheridan, and Garrick. I stood on the +grave of Dickens. And the throng passed slowly, reverently gazing into +the dark grave where Browning's body had been laid as the old year was +dying. Pealing through nave and transepts and the chapels of Kings, +above the altar and the tombs of soldiers, sailors, statesmen—the +brood who had made England and sung of her—the rumbling and trumpeting +of the Dead March. Might not Shakespeare and Milton, Doctor Johnson, +and Goldsmith and Gray have come to the Poets' Corner that day at noon +to join the company, and to greet, from their own memorials, this other +man who had helped to make England? It seemed quite probable as we +passed from that real world into the world of fog, and the closing door +of the Poets' Corner shut in behind us the now tremulous notes of the +organ. +</P> + +<P> +How often have I heard Sir Frederick stir the +<SPAN CLASS="pagenum">{<A NAME="P56"></A>56}</SPAN> +slumbering majesty, +beauty, and solemnity that lie within the Abbey organ, stir them to +living wonder on occasions like this? More times than I can easily +recall. In capitals and churches and cathedrals, in many parts of the +world, that March from "Saul" has awakened memories within me. My +earliest memory of music concerns itself with a military band, marching +slowly, slowly down a hill, troops following with reversed arms, a gun +carriage carrying something that was not a gun, covered with a flag; +horses whose riders moved very slowly; coaches that young eyes saw as +beyond number; and then a hole-in-the-ground. Men carried something on +their shoulders from the gun carriage and lowered it into the hole; +other men fired guns at the sky. A hawk flew full circle in the blue. +And some one said, "My boy, take a last look where your father lies." +Then the Dead March rolled and moaned again, and fixed itself on one of +the pins of memory. +</P> + +<P> +The solemn notes always bring back those moments, as a vision in which +a small boy made his first acquaintance with Death. But they have +never seemed to humble and exalt, moan and triumph and sob and +victoriously march to the rhythm of the winds, so charged with majesty, +as when Sir Frederick touched the heart of his instrument at the Abbey. +The occasion, the place drenched with memories, the simple ceremony, +the music's magic, and the mystery of it all make of this tribute to +Death one of the rich experiences of living. +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="chap06"></A> + +<SPAN CLASS="pagenum">{<A NAME="P57"></A>57}</SPAN> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +CHAPTER VI +</H3> + +<H4 ALIGN="center"> +PATTI +</H4> + +<P> +One broiling afternoon—it was in August, 1893—a Great Western train +from London left me at a wee-bit station on the top of a Welsh +mountain. The station was called "Penwylt." It overlooked the Swansea +Valley, and stood about halfway between Brecon and the sea. When a +traveller alighted at Penwylt there was no need to ask why he did so. +He could have but one destination, and that was Craig-y-Nos Castle, the +home of Madame Patti. She was then Madame Patti-Nicolini; she +afterward became the Baroness Cederström. I shall use here the name by +which, for sixty years, she has been known to an adoring world. A +carriage from the castle was awaiting me, and quickly it bore me down +the steep road to the valley, a sudden turn showing the Patti palace +there on the banks of the Tawe. The Castle was two miles distant and a +thousand feet below the railway. An American flag was flying on the +tower. It flew there through the week of my visit, for was I not an +ambassador from the American Public to the Queen of Song? +</P> + +<P> +Mr. Gladstone once told Madame Patti that he would like to make her +Queen of Wales. But she +<SPAN CLASS="pagenum">{<A NAME="P58"></A>58}</SPAN> +was that already, and more. She was +Queen of Hearts the world over, and every soul with an ear was her +liege. And, literally, in Wales Patti was very like a queen. She +lived in a palace; people came to her from the ends of the earth; she +was attended with "love, honour, troops of friends"; and whenever she +went beyond her own immediate gardens the country folk gathered by the +roadside, dropping curtseys and throwing kisses to her bonny majesty. +</P> + +<P> +Her greeting of me was characteristic of this most famous and fortunate +of women, this unspoiled favourite of our whirling planet. A group of +her friends stood merrily chatting in the hall, and, as I approached, a +dainty little woman with big brown eyes came running out from the +centre of the company, stretched forth her hands, spoke a hearty +welcome, and accompanied it with the inimitable smile which had made +slaves of emperors. She had the figure and vivacity of a girl. She +was fifty that year, but, there in broad daylight, looked fifteen or +twenty years younger. This is not an illusion of gallantry, but a +statement of fact. +</P> + +<P> +There was a kind of family party at Craig-y-Nos. Stiffness and +dullness, and the usual country-house talk about horses and guns, golf +and fishing, did not prevail there. <I>La Diva's</I> guests were intimate +friends, and chiefly a company of English girls who were passing the +summer with her. In the evening, when all assembled in the +drawing-room before going in to dinner, I found that we represented +five nationalities,—Italian, Spanish, French, English, +<SPAN CLASS="pagenum">{<A NAME="P59"></A>59}</SPAN> +and +American. While we awaited the appearance of our hostess, the +gathering seemed like a polyglot congress. +</P> + +<P> +As the chimes in the tower struck the hour of eight, a fairy vision +appeared at the drawing-room door,—Patti, royally gowned and jewelled. +The defects of the masculine intellect leave me incapable of describing +the costume of that radiant little woman. It belonged to one of her +operatic characters, I forget which one. But my forgetfulness does n't +matter. The sight brought us to our feet, bowing as if we had been a +company of court gallants in the "spacious days of great Elizabeth", +and we added the modern tribute of applause, which our queen +acknowledged with a silvery laugh. I remember only that the gown was +white and of some silky stuff, and that about <I>La Diva's</I> neck were +loops of pearls, and that above her fluffy chestnut hair were +glittering jewels. With women it may be different, but mere man cannot +give a list of Patti's adornments on any occasion; he can know only +that they became her, and that he saw only her happy face. Before our +murmurs had ceased, Patti, who had not entered the room, but had merely +stood in the portal, turned, taking the arm of the guest who was to sit +at her right, and away we marched in her train, as if she were truly +the queen, through the corridors to the conservatory, where dinner was +served. +</P> + +<P> +It was my privilege at the Castle table to sit at Madame Patti's left. +At her right was one whose friendship with her dated from the instant +of her +<SPAN CLASS="pagenum">{<A NAME="P60"></A>60}</SPAN> +first European triumph. Heavens!—How many years ago? But +it was a quarter of a century less than it now is at the time of which +I am writing. The delight of those luncheons and dinners at +Craig-y-Nos is unforgettable. There was a notion abroad that these +meals were held "in state"; but they were not. There was merely the +ordinary dinner custom of an English mansion. The menu, though, was +stately enough, for the art of cookery was practised at Craig-y-Nos by +a master who had earned the right to prepare dinners for Patti. The +dining room was seldom used in summer for, handsome though that +apartment is, Patti, and her guests, too, for that matter, preferred to +be served in the great glass room which was formerly the conservatory +and was still called so. There we sat, as far as outlook goes, out of +doors; in whatever direction we gazed we looked up or down the Swansea +Valley, across to the mountains, and along the tumbling course of the +river Tawe. I was risking some neglect of my dinner, for I sat gazing +at the wood-covered cliffs of Craig-y-Nos (Rock-of-the-Night) opposite, +and listening to the ceaseless prattle of the mountain stream. Patti, +noticing my admiration of the view, said, "You see what a dreadful +place it is in which I bury myself." +</P> + +<P> +"'Bury' yourself! On the contrary, here you are at the summit of +Paradise, and you have discovered the fountain of perpetual youth. A +'dreadful place', indeed! It's the nearest thing to fairy-land." +</P> + +<P> +"But one of your countrymen says that I 'hide +<SPAN CLASS="pagenum">{<A NAME="P61"></A>61}</SPAN> +far from the world +among the ugly Welsh hills.' He writes it in an American journal of +fabulous circulation, and I suppose people believe the tale." +</P> + +<P> +Patti laughed at the thought of a too credulous public, and then she +added: +</P> + +<P> +"Really, they write the oddest things about my home, as if it were +either the scene of Jack-the-Giant-Killer's exploits on the top of the +Beanstalk, or a prison in a desolate land." +</P> + +<P> +After visiting Patti at Craig-y-Nos I wondered no more why this +enchanting woman sang "Home, Sweet Home" so that she fascinated +millions. Her own home was far from being "humble", but it was before +all things, a home. And she had earned it. There is not anywhere a +lovelier spot, nor was there elsewhere a place so remote and at the +same time so complete in every resource of civilization. +</P> + +<P> +Dinner passed merrily. Merrily is exactly the word to describe it. Up +and down the table good stories flew, sometimes faster than one could +catch them. Nobody liked a good joke better than Patti, and when she +heard one that particularly pleased her she would interpret it to some +guest who had not sufficiently mastered the language in which it was +told. It was all sheer comedy, and after watching it, and hearing <I>La +Diva</I> speak in a variety of tongues, I asked: +</P> + +<P> +"I wonder if you have what people call a native tongue, or whether all +of them came to you as a gift of the gods." +</P> + +<P> +"Oh, I don't know so many languages," she +<SPAN CLASS="pagenum">{<A NAME="P62"></A>62}</SPAN> +replied, "only—let's +see—English, German, Italian, Spanish, and Russian." +</P> + +<P> +"And which do you speak best, or like best?" +</P> + +<P> +"I really don't know. To me there is no difference, as far as +readiness goes, and I suppose 'the readiness is all.'" +</P> + +<P> +"Not quite all. But what is your favourite, if you have a favourite +among them?" +</P> + +<P> +"Oh, Italian! Listen!" +</P> + +<P> +And then she recited an Italian poem. Next to hearing Patti sing, the +sweetest sound was her Italian speech. Presently she said: +</P> + +<P> +"Speaking of languages, Mr. Gladstone paid me a pretty compliment a +little while ago—nearly three years ago. I will show you his letter +to-morrow, if you care to see it." +</P> + +<P> +Patti forgot nothing. The next day she brought me Mr. Gladstone's +letter. The Grand Old Man had been among her auditors at Edinburgh, +and after the performance he went on the stage to thank her for the +pleasure she had given him. He complained a little of a cold which had +been troubling him, and Patti begged him to try some lozenges which she +found useful. That night she sent him a little box of them. The old +statesman acknowledged the gift with this letter: +</P> + +<BR> + +<P CLASS="noindent"> +6, Rothesay Terrace,<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">Edinburgh.</SPAN><BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 2em">October 22, 1890.</SPAN><BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="noindent"> +Dear Madame Patti: +</P> + +<P> +I do not know how to thank you enough for your charming gift. I am +afraid, however, that the use +<SPAN CLASS="pagenum">{<A NAME="P63"></A>63}</SPAN> +of your lozenges will not make me +your rival. <I>Voce quastata di ottante' anni non si ricupera</I>. +</P> + +<P> +It was a rare treat to hear from your Italian lips last night the songs +of my own tongue, rendered with a delicacy of modulation and a fineness +of utterance such as no native ever in my hearing had reached or even +approached. Believe me, +</P> + +<P CLASS="noindent"> +Faithfully yours,<BR> + W. E. GLADSTONE.<BR> +</P> + +<BR> + +<P> +This letter, naturally enough, gave conversation a reminiscent turn. +After some talk of great folk she had known, I asked Madame Patti what +had been the proudest experience in her career. +</P> + +<P> +"For a great and unexpected honour most gracefully tendered," said she, +"I have known nothing that has touched me more deeply than a compliment +paid by the Prince of Wales (afterwards King Edward VII) and a +distinguished company, at a dinner given to the Duke of York and the +Princess May (the present King and Queen), a little while before their +wedding. The dinner was given by Mr. Alfred Rothschild, one of my +oldest and best friends. There were many royalties present and more +dukes and duchesses than I can easily remember. During the ceremonies +the Prince of Wales arose, and to my astonishment, proposed the health +of his 'old and valued friend, Madame Patti.' He made <I>such</I> a pretty +speech, and in the course of it said that he had first seen and heard +me in Philadelphia in 1860, when I sang in 'Martha', and that since +then his own attendance at what he was good enough to call my +'victories in the realm of song' had been among his pleasantest +<SPAN CLASS="pagenum">{<A NAME="P64"></A>64}</SPAN> +recollections. He recalled the fact that on one of the occasions, when +the Princess and himself had invited me to Marlborough House, his wife +had held up little Prince George, in whose honour we were this night +assembled, and bade him kiss me, so that in after life he might say +that he had 'kissed the famous Madame Patti.' And then, do you know, +that whole company of royalty, nobility, and men of genius rose and +cheered me and drank my health. Don't you think that any little woman +would be proud, and ought to be proud, of a spontaneous tribute like +that?" +</P> + +<P> +It is difficult, when repeating in this way such snatches of biography, +to suggest the modest tone and manner of the person whose words may be +recorded. It is particularly difficult in the case of Madame Patti, +who was absolutely unspoiled by praise. Autobiography such as hers +must read a little fanciful to most folk; it is so far removed from the +common experiences of us all and even from the extraordinary +experiences of the renowned persons we hear about usually. But there +was not a patch of vanity in Patti's sunny nature. Her life had been a +long, unbroken record of success,—success to a degree attained by no +other woman. No one else has won and held such homage; no one else had +been so wondrously endowed with beauty and genius and sweet simplicity +of nature,—a nature unmarred by flattery, by applause, by wealth, by +the possession and exercise of power. Patti at fifty was like a girl +in her ways, in her thoughts, her spirit, in her disinterestedness, in +her enjoyments. +<SPAN CLASS="pagenum">{<A NAME="P65"></A>65}</SPAN> +Time had dimmed none of her charms, it had not +lessened then her superb gifts. She said to me one day: +</P> + +<P> +"They tell me I am getting to be an old woman, but I don't believe it. +I don't feel old. I feel young. I am the youngest person of my +acquaintance." +</P> + +<P> +That was true enough, as they knew who saw Patti from day to day. She +had all the enthusiasm and none of the affectations of a young girl. +When she spoke of herself it was with most delicious frankness and lack +of self-consciousness. She was perfectly natural. +</P> + +<P> +She promised to show me the programme of that Philadelphia performance +before the Prince of Wales so long ago, and the next day she put it +before me. It was a satin programme with gilt fringe, and it was +topped by the Prince of Wales's feathers. At that Philadelphia +performance Patti made her first appearance before royalty. In the +next year she made her London début at Covent Garden, as Amina in "La +Somnambula." The next morning Europe rang with the fame of the new +prima donna from America. +</P> + +<P> +"I tried to show them that the young lady from America was entitled to +a hearing," said she, as we looked over the old programmes. +</P> + +<P> +"And has 'the young lady from America' kept her national spirit, or has +she become so much a citizen of the world that no corner of it has any +greater claim than another upon her affections?" +</P> + +<P> +"I love the Italian language, the American people, +<SPAN CLASS="pagenum">{<A NAME="P66"></A>66}</SPAN> +the English +country, and my Welsh home," she said. +</P> + +<P> +"Good! The national preferences, if you can be said to own any, have +reason on their side. Your parents were Italian, you were born in +Spain, you made your first professional appearance in America, you +first won international fame in England, and among these Welsh hills +you have planted a paradise." +</P> + +<P> +"How nice of you! That evening at Mr. Alfred Rothschild's, the Prince +of Wales asked me why I do not stay in London during 'the season', and +take some part in its endless social pleasures. 'Because, your Royal +Highness,' I replied, 'I have a lovely home in Wales, and whenever I +come away from it I leave my heart there.' 'After all,' said the +prince, 'why should you stay in London when the whole world is only too +glad to make pilgrimages to Craig-y-Nos?' Was n't that nice of him?" +</P> + +<P> +I despair of conveying any impression of the <I>naïveté</I> with which the +last five words were uttered. The tone expressed the most innocent +pleasure in the world. When Patti spoke in that way she seemed to be +wondering why people should say and do so many pleasant things on her +account. There was an air of childish surprise in her look and voice. +</P> + +<P> +I said: "All good republicans have a passion for royalty. I find that +an article about a King, or a Queen, or a Prince is in greater demand +in the United States than anywhere else in the world. So tell me +something more about the Prince and Princess of Wales. I promise, as a +zealous democrat, that +<SPAN CLASS="pagenum">{<A NAME="P67"></A>67}</SPAN> +no one on the far side of the Atlantic will +skip a word. Have the Prince and Princess visited Craig-y-Nos?" +</P> + +<P> +"No. But they were coming here a couple of years ago. See—here is +the Prince's letter fixing the date. But it was followed by the death +of the Duke of Clarence, their eldest son, and then for many months +they lived in quiet and mourning, only appearing in their usual way +just before the wedding of the Duke of York (King George V). They sent +me an invitation to the wedding festivities. But alas! I could not +go. I had just finished my season and was lying painfully ill with +rheumatism. You heard of that? For weeks I suffered acutely. It's an +old complaint. I have had it at intervals ever since I was a child. +But about that royal wedding. When the Prince and Princess of Wales +learned that I was too ill to accept their gracious invitation, +they—well, what do you suppose they did next?" +</P> + +<P> +"Something kind and graceful." +</P> + +<P> +"They sent me two large portraits of themselves, bearing their +autographs and fitted into great gilt frames. You shall see the +portraits after dinner. They have the places of honour at Craig-y-Nos." +</P> + +<P> +We had reached the coffee stage of dinner, and the cigars were being +passed. The ladies did not withdraw, according to the mediæval (and +shall I say popular?) habit, but the company remained unbroken, and +while the gentlemen smoked, the ladies kept them in conversation. +Nowadays you would say they all smoked. Presently, some one +<SPAN CLASS="pagenum">{<A NAME="P68"></A>68}</SPAN> +proposed Patti's health, and we all stood, singing, "For She 's a Jolly +Good Fellow." +</P> + +<P> +That put the ball of merriment in motion again. One of the young +ladies, a goddaughter of the hostess, carolled a stanza from a popular +ditty. At first I thought it audacious that any one should sing in the +presence of <I>La Diva</I>. It seemed sacrilege. But in another instant we +were all at it, piping the chorus, and Patti leading off. The fun of +the thing was infectious. The song finished, we ventured another, and +Patti joined us in the refrains of a medley of music-hall airs, +beginning with London's latest mania, "Daisy Bell, or a Bicycle Built +for Two", and winding up with Chevalier's "Old Kent Road" and the +"Coster's Serenade", Coborn's "Man That Broke the Bank at Monte Carlo", +and somebody else's "Daddy Would n't Buy me a Bow-Wow." +</P> + +<P> +Patti turned with an arch look. "You will think our behaviour +abominable." +</P> + +<P> +"No, I don't. I think it jolly. Besides, it's not everybody who has +heard you sing comic songs." +</P> + +<P> +Her answer was a peal of laughter, and then she sat there, singing very +softly a stanza of "My Old Kentucky Home", and as we finished the +chorus she lifted a clear, sweet note, which thrilled us through and +through and stirred us to excited applause. +</P> + +<P> +"What have I done?" Patti put the question with a puzzled air. +</P> + +<P> +The reply came from the adjoining library: "High E." One of our number +had run to the piano. +</P> + +<SPAN CLASS="pagenum">{<A NAME="P69"></A>69}</SPAN> + +<P> +Then I recalled what Sir Morell Mackenzie had told me a little while +before he died. We were chatting in that famous room of his in Harley +Street, and we happened to mention Madame Patti. "She has the most +wonderful throat I have ever seen," said Sir Morell. "It is the only +one I have ever seen with the vocal cords in absolutely perfect +condition after many years of use. They are not strained, or warped or +roughened, but as I tell you, they are perfect. There is no reason why +they should not remain so ten years longer, and with care and health +twenty years longer." +</P> + +<P> +Remembering this, I asked Patti if she had taken extraordinary care of +her voice. +</P> + +<P> +"I have never tired it," said she; "I never sing when I am tired, and +that means I am never tired when I sing. And I have never strained for +high notes. I have heard that the first question asked of new +vocalists nowadays is 'How high can you sing?' But I have always +thought that the least important matter in singing. One should sing +only what one can sing with perfect ease." +</P> + +<P> +"But in eating and drinking? According to all accounts, you are the +most abstemious person in the world." +</P> + +<P> +"No, indeed! I avoid very hot and very cold dishes, otherwise I eat +and drink whatever I like. My care is chiefly to avoid taking cold and +to avoid indigestion. But these are the ordinary precautions of one +who knows that health is the key to happiness." +</P> + +<P> +"And practising? Have you rigid rules for that? One hears of +astounding exercise and self-denial." +</P> + +<SPAN CLASS="pagenum">{<A NAME="P70"></A>70}</SPAN> + +<P> +"Brilliant achievements in fiction. For practising I run a few scales +twenty minutes a day. After a long professional tour I let my voice +rest for a month and do not practise at all during that time." +</P> + +<P> +During my visit to Craig-y-Nos we usually spent our evenings in the +billiard rooms. There were two, an English room and a French one. In +the French room there was a large orchestrion which had been built in +Geneva for Madame Patti. It was operated by electricity and was said +to be the finest instrument of its kind. Our hostess would start it of +an evening, and the ingenious contrivance would "discourse most +eloquent music" from a repertoire of one hundred and sixteen pieces, +including arias from grand operas, military marches and simple ballads. +Music, of course, is the fascinator that Patti cannot resist. The +simplest melody stirs her to song. In the far corner from the +orchestrion she would sit in a big easy-chair, and hum the air that +rolled from the organ pipes, keeping time with her dainty feet, or +moving her head as the air grew livelier. Or she would send forth some +lark-like trill, or urge the young people to a dance, or a chorus, and +when every one was tuned to the full pitch of melody and merriment, she +would join in the fun as heartily as the rest. I used to sit and watch +her play the castanets, or hear her snatch an air or two from "Martha", +"Lucia", or "Traviata." +</P> + +<P> +One night the younger fry were chanting negro melodies, and Patti came +into the room, warbling as if possessed by an ecstasy. "I love those +darky songs," said she, and straightway she sang to us, +<SPAN CLASS="pagenum">{<A NAME="P71"></A>71}</SPAN> +with that +inimitable clarity and tenderness which were hers alone, "Way Down upon +the Suwanee River", "Massa's in the Col', Col' Ground", and after that +"Home, Sweet Home", while all of us listeners felt more than we cared +to show. +</P> + +<P> +Guests at Craig-y-Nos were the most fortunate of mortals. If the guest +were a man, a valet was told off to attend him; if the guest were a +lady, a maid was placed at her service. Breakfast was served in one's +room at any hour one chose. Patti never came down before high noon. +She rose at half-past eight, but remained until twelve in her +apartments, going through her correspondence with her secretary and +practising a little music. At half-past twelve luncheon was served in +the glass pavilion. After that hour a guest was free to follow his own +devices until dinner time. He might go shooting, fishing, riding, +walking, or he might stroll about the lovely demesne, and see what +manner of heavenly nook nature and Patti had made for themselves among +the hills of Wales. Patti's castle is in every sense a palatial +dwelling. She saw it fifteen years before I did, fell in love with it, +purchased it, and subsequently expended great sums in enlarging it. +The castellated mansion, with the theatre at one end and the pavilion +and winter garden at the other, has a frontage of fully a thousand feet +along the terraced banks of the Tawe. But the place has been so often +described that it is unnecessary to repeat that oft-told story, or to +give details of the gasworks, the electric-lighting station, the ice +plant and cold-storage rooms, the steam +<SPAN CLASS="pagenum">{<A NAME="P72"></A>72}</SPAN> +laundry, the French and +English kitchens, the stables, the carriage houses, the fifty servants, +or of the watchfulness, care, devotion, which surrounded the melodious +mistress of this miniature kingdom. Those matters are a part of the +folklore of England and America. +</P> + +<P> +But I must say something of Patti's little theatre. It was her special +and particular delight. She got more pleasure from it than from any +other of the many possessions at Craig-y-Nos. It was a gem of a +theatre, well proportioned and exquisitely decorated. Not only could +the sloping floor be quickly raised, so that the auditorium might +become a ballroom, but the appurtenances of the stage were elaborate +and complete. For this statement I had the authority of the stage +manager of the Royal Opera House at Covent Garden. This expert was +supervising certain alterations at the Patti theatre while I was at +Craig-y-Nos, and he told me that the house then contained every +accessory for the production of forty operas! +</P> + +<P> +Patti sang occasionally at concerts in her theatre. All her life she +treasured her voice for the public; she had never exhausted it by +devising an excess of entertainment for her personal friends. And so +most of the performances in the little theatre were pantomimic. +Although Patti seemed to me always to be humming and singing while I +was at the Castle, yet there was nothing of the "performing" order in +what she did. She merely went singing softly about the house, or +joining in our choruses, like a happy child. +</P> + +<SPAN CLASS="pagenum">{<A NAME="P73"></A>73}</SPAN> + +<P> +One morning, while a dozen of us were sitting in the shade of the +terrace, the ladies with their fancy work, the men with their papers, +books, and cigars, we heard, from an open window above, a burst of +song, full-throated like a bird's. It was for all the world like the +song of a skylark, of glorious ecstasy, as if the bird were mounting in +the air, the merrier as it soared the higher, until it poured from an +invisible height a shower of joyous melody. No one amongst us stirred, +or made a sound. <I>La Diva</I> thought us far away up the valley, where we +had planned an excursion, but we had postponed the project to a cooler +day. We remained silent, listening. Our unseen entertainer seemed to +be flitting about her boudoir, singing as she flitted, snatching a bar +or two from this opera and that, revelling in the fragment of a ballad, +or trilling a few notes like our friend the lark. Presently she +ceased, and we were about to move, when she began to sing "Comin' Thro' +the Rye." She was alone in her room, but she was singing as gloriously +as if to an audience of ten thousand in the Albert Hall. The +unsuspected group of listeners on the terrace slipped then from their +own control, and took to vigorous applause and cries of "<I>brava, +brava</I>." +</P> + +<P> +"Oh, oh, oh!" cried the birdlike voice above. +</P> + +<P> +We looked up, and saw Patti leaning out at the casement. +</P> + +<P> +"Oh," said she, "I couldn't help it, really I could n't. I 'm so +happy!" +</P> + +<P> +At luncheon she proposed an entertainment in the theatre for the +evening of the following day. +<SPAN CLASS="pagenum">{<A NAME="P74"></A>74}</SPAN> +We were to have "Camille" in +pantomime. The preparations moved swiftly. Among the guests were +several capable amateur actors. The performance began a little after +ten. Some musicians were brought from Swansea. A dozen gentlefolk +hastily summoned from the valley, those among the guests who were not +enrolled for the pantomime, and a gallery full of cottagers and +servants made up the audience. We had "an opera" in five acts of +pantomime, with orchestra, and all together it was fun. Of course, +Patti carried off the honours. There was supper after the play, and +the sunlight crept into the Swansea Valley within two hours after we +had risen from table. +</P> + +<P> +I said to Patti after the pantomime, "You don't seem to believe that +change of occupation is the best possible rest. You seem to work as +hard at rehearsing and acting in your little theatre as if you were 'on +tour.'" +</P> + +<P> +"Not quite! Besides, it is n't work, it's play," replied the +miraculous little woman. "I love the theatre. And, then, there is +always something to learn about acting. I find these pantomime +performances useful as well as amusing." +</P> + +<P> +Every afternoon about three o'clock Patti and her guests went for a +drive, a small procession of landaus and brakes rattling along the +smooth country roads. You could see at once that this was Pattiland. +The cottagers came to their doors and saluted her Melodious Majesty, +and the children of the countryside ran out and threw kisses. +</P> + +<P> +"Oh! the dears," exclaimed the kind-hearted +<SPAN CLASS="pagenum">{<A NAME="P75"></A>75}</SPAN> +Queen, as we were +driving toward the village of Ystradgynlais (they call it something +like "Ist-rag-dun-las"), one afternoon. "I would like to build another +castle and put all those mites into it, and let them live there with +music and flowers!" And I believe she would have given orders for such +a castle straightway, had there been a builder in sight. +</P> + +<P> +On the way home Patti promised me "a surprise" for the evening. I +wondered what it might be, and when the non-appearance of the ladies +kept the gentlemen waiting in the drawing-room at dinner time, I was +the more puzzled. The men, to pass the time, inspected the "trophies" +of the prima donna. It would be impossible to enumerate them because +Craig-y-Nos Castle was another South Kensington Museum in respect to +the treasures it held. Every shelf, table, and cabinet was packed with +gifts which Patti had received from all parts of the earth, from +monarchs and millionaires, princes and peasants, old friends and +strangers. There was Marie Antoinette's watch, to begin with, and +there were portraits of the Prince and Princess of Wales, to end with. +There was a remarkable collection of portraits of royal personages, +presented to Patti by the distinguished originals on the occasion of +her marriage to M. Nicolini. Photographs of the Grand Old Man of +Politics and the Grand Old Man of Music rested side by side on a little +table presented by some potentate. Gladstone's likeness bore his +autograph and the inscription, "<I>Con tanti e tanti Complimenti</I>"; +Verdi's, his autograph and a fervent tribute written at Milan. There +were crowns and +<SPAN CLASS="pagenum">{<A NAME="P76"></A>76}</SPAN> +wreaths and rare china; there were paintings and +plate, and I know not what, wherever one looked. +</P> + +<P> +If one were to make Patti a gift, and he had a King's ransom to +purchase it, he would find it difficult to give her anything that would +be a novelty, or that would be unique in her eyes. She had everything. +For my part, I would pluck a rose from her garden, or gather a nosegay +from a hedgerow, and it would please her as much as if it were a +diadem. She valued the thought that prompted the giving, rather than +the gift itself. She never forgot even the smallest act of kindness +that was done for her sake. And she was always doing kindnesses for +others. I have heard from the Welsh folk many tales of her generosity. +And to her friends she was the most open-handed of women. +</P> + +<P> +There was one dark, drizzly day during the visit to Craig-y-Nos. It +mattered little to the men. The wet did not interfere with their +amusements. But every lady wore some precious jewel that Patti had +given her that morning,—a ring, a brooch, a bracelet, as the case +might be. For the generous creature thought her fair friends would be +disappointed because they could not get out of doors. How could she +know that every one in the Castle welcomed the rain because it meant a +few hours more with Patti? +</P> + +<P> +The "surprise" she had spoken of was soon apparent. The ladies came +trooping into the drawing-room wearing the gowns and jewels of Patti's +operatic roles. Patti herself came last, in "Leonora's" white and +jewels. What a dinner-party we +<SPAN CLASS="pagenum">{<A NAME="P77"></A>77}</SPAN> +had that night,—we men, in the +prim black and white of evening dress, sitting there with "Leonora" and +"Desdemona" and "Marguerite" and "Rachel" and "Lucia" and "Carmen" and +"Dinorah", and I know not how many more! Nobody but Patti would have +thought of such merry masquerading, or, having thought of it, would or +could have gone to the trouble of providing it. +</P> + +<P> +Of course, we talked of her favourite characters in opera, and then of +singers she had known. She said it would give her real pleasure to +hear Mario and Grisi again, or, coming to later days, Scalchi and Annie +Louise Carey. The latter, being an American and a friend, I was glad +to hear this appreciation of her from the Queen of Song. "Carey and +Scalchi were the two greatest contraltos I have known; and I have sung +with both of them. I remember Annie Louise Carey as a superb artist +and a sweet and noble woman." +</P> + +<P> +I said "Hear, hear," in the parliamentary manner, and then Patti added: +</P> + +<P> +"Now we will go to the theatre again. There is to be another +entertainment." It was, of all unexpected things, a lantern show. +Patti's arrangement for that was, like everything else at Craig-y-Nos, +from her piano to her pet parrot, the only one of its kind. It was +capable of giving, with all sorts of "mechanical effects", a two hours' +entertainment every night for two months without repeating a scene. +Patti invited me to sit beside her and watch the dissolving views. It +seemed to me that it would be like this to sit beside Queen Victoria +<SPAN CLASS="pagenum">{<A NAME="P78"></A>78}</SPAN> +during a "State performance" at Windsor, only not half so much +fun! Here was Patti Imperatrice, dressed like a queen, wearing a crown +of diamonds, and attended by her retinue of brilliantly attired women +and attentive gentlemen of the court. And it was so like her to cause +the entertainment to end with a series of American views and to sing +for me "Home, Sweet Home", as we looked out on New York harbour from a +steamship inward bound. +</P> + +<P> +The next morning I started from Craig-y-Nos for America. As the +dogcart was tugged slowly up the mountain side, the Stars and Stripes +saluted me from the Castle tower, waving farewell as I withdrew from my +peep at Paradise. +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="chap07"></A> + +<SPAN CLASS="pagenum">{<A NAME="P79"></A>79}</SPAN> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +CHAPTER VII +</H3> + +<H4 ALIGN="center"> +JOHN STUART BLACKIE +</H4> + +<P> +The wind was from the east, the Scotch "mist" from everywhere, but +Professor Blackie had a sunny heart that made one forget the raw +weather. I thought the sun was shining and the skies blue when I went +to lunch at Number 9 Douglas Crescent, Edinburgh, one November day in +the early nineties. +</P> + +<P> +Almost any day in half a century you might have seen Professor Blackie +striding through Edinburgh as strong as an athlete, hearty as a young +hunter. One morning I encountered him as he was beating eastward +against half a gale, his cape flying, his cloud of white hair tossing +against his big-brimmed, soft black hat, his cheeks rosy with the +winter wind, and his kind eyes dancing with the delight he felt in +exercise. He was eighty-five! +</P> + +<P> +I told him of reading somewhere that he loved to play the peripatetic +philosopher. How he laughed! "Do they say that of me? Ho, ho, ho!" +And then he trolled a "Hi-ti-rumty-tum", snatching an air, as his habit +was, from a half-forgotten song, and ending with an exclamatory line of +Greek. He looked like a prophet apostrophising the gods. +</P> + +<P> +"And they say I speak 'a confusion of tongues.' +<SPAN CLASS="pagenum">{<A NAME="P80"></A>80}</SPAN> +Don't mind that," +said he. "Greek, Latin, Gaelic, German, English—all are one to me. I +borrow the words that come readiest for the thought. But Greek is the +great language." And he strode down the hill. +</P> + +<P> +He was the most picturesque figure then living in Edinburgh, and many +thought him the greatest man in the Scotland of those times. He was +the "Grand Old Man" of that northern kingdom, and in vitality and +spirits and capacity for work he was at eighty-five the youngest man I +knew. He was packed with wisdom and overflowing with music and +merriment. If he had not been so musical and so merry you might have +called him Scotland incarnate. Doubtless he was that, with the music +and merriment added. As for character, even Scotland never produced a +nobler one, nor set it in a more imposing figure, or in a grander head. +Scholar, poet, philosopher, teacher, learner, political writer, lover +of the classics, strenuous believer in modern progress, he was sure +that the world was never better than in his day, the Victorian day, and +that it was growing better steadily. They were all optimists then. +Lord Salisbury, when prime minister, added that they were all +socialists. Professor Blackie drew the line at that. Perhaps +Salisbury was quoting Harcourt. +</P> + +<P> +Visiting in Glasgow, I received one morning a note from him inviting me +to lunch at his house in Edinburgh. On the lower, left-hand corner of +the envelope he had written a line of Greek, as his custom was. This +time it was an adjuration: +<SPAN CLASS="pagenum">{<A NAME="P81"></A>81}</SPAN> +"Speak the truth in love." But who +could speak of him in other words than those of love? In his note he +had written "Come and talk." But he did all the talking. What an +inspiring flood it was! +</P> + +<P> +No sooner was I in his hall than I heard, to my disappointment, the +sound of what seemed lively conversation from an adjoining room. I had +hoped to find him alone. The prospect of a luncheon party dampened my +ardour. But when the maid conducted me to the presence, there sat the +Scottish sage alone, declaiming a Gaelic poem. At least he told me it +was Gaelic! +</P> + +<P> +"Laugh," cried he, "laugh. 'T will do ye good. Ah, y' are one o' the +laughin' men! I like them. Try a man; will he no' laugh, or smile, +don't tie to him. There 's too much gloom in the world." +</P> + +<P> +What a picture he was in that hour. Yes, and hours after, when I left +him. The tall old man with strong, smooth-shaven face, like one of the +traditional gods of his favourite lore, but in no other respect +resembling a mythological being. His head was crowned, not with +laurel, but with a wide-brimmed Panama or leghorn hat, beneath which +streamed his long white hair. And his body was lost in the embraces of +a blue dressing-gown which came to his heels; and around his waist were +yards of red silk sash, the ends of which trailed behind him. +</P> + +<P> +"Punctual," said he. "You are sharp to the minute. Came by the eleven +train, eh? An hour and five minutes on the rail. Wonderful how we +live now! Glasgow to Edinburgh and return, +<SPAN CLASS="pagenum">{<A NAME="P82"></A>82}</SPAN> +ninety-six miles for +seven shillings and sixpence, first class. The quickest travelling in +the world, and the cheapest. That's one thing the auld Greeks could +na' do. Fol-de-rol-de-rol-de-ri. Progress, progress; I believe in it. +I 'm a marching man. There's nae such thing as standin' still; you go +forward, or you fall back. Will ye ring the bell? I thank ye! +Bachelor's hall the day. My wife is in the country, but we will try to +be comfortable." +</P> + +<P> +While we ate Professor Blackie talked, burst into snatches of melody, +rippled in Greek, or thundered in German, or gave the dear twist of +Scotland to his words, or, when he thought there had been enough of +that, drew from the "well of English, pure and undefiled." And all the +time he wore his hat! +</P> + +<P> +"You won't mind, I know," he said. "Eighty-five and no glasses to my +eyes. There 's protection in the shade of a hat's brim. Eighty-five +and no glasses! The only proof I 'm eighty-five is the almanac. There +'s no proof in my body. I 'm as young as ever there." And then he +turned the Greek tap so that Aristotle larded the lunch. +</P> + +<P> +He had been in love with Greek for more than sixty years; he taught it +for thirty or forty years; he knew it as well as he knew English; he +read modern Greek newspapers; he had the best Greek library in the +kingdom; I daresay he dreamed in Greek. I said: "You talk as if, in +spirit, you were more a Greek than a Scotsman." +</P> + +<P> +"Not that"—he half sang the words—"Oh, +<SPAN CLASS="pagenum">{<A NAME="P83"></A>83}</SPAN> +bonny Scotland for me. A +man should stick to the land where God put him!" +</P> + +<P> +He drew the knife along the breast of a chicken. "My wife won't let me +carve when she 's at home," he said. He looked threateningly at a +joint. "Never mind, never mind," said he, and then in a chant, "hey +nonny, hi nonny." Pause. Then "Come off, old boy," and a wing and a +leg clattered to the platter. "The nearer the bone the sweeter the +meat," said he. "But statesmen have carved empires more easily." +</P> + +<P> +"Mr. Gladstone, for example," said I, referring to the Home Rule Bill. +</P> + +<P> +"Ho, there; but he has n't performed the amputation!" +</P> + +<P> +"You don't agree with your old friend about that policy?" +</P> + +<P> +"No, nor about Greek. But we are friends still. As for discussion, we +began that when we first met. How many tens of years ago was that? We +have been discussing ever since. Yes, forty years! We met at Dean +Ramsey's house. Gladstone was a splendid man to disagree with even +then." +</P> + +<P> +As Professor Blackie talked of his friends, the names of nearly all his +contemporaries in England, Scotland, and Germany came hurrying forth. +But he would n't tell anecdotes about them for two reasons; first, he +never remembered good stories; second, "I don't live in the past," he +said. He was not a good talker, if good talk means keeping up your end +in conversation. He kept up more than his end. He was always ready +for a monologue. +<SPAN CLASS="pagenum">{<A NAME="P84"></A>84}</SPAN> +He did n't converse, he exploded. His +utterances were volcanic. There would come an eruption of short +sentences blazing with philosophy; then a kindly glow over it all, and +the discharge would subside quickly with a gentle rumty-tum, or a +snatch from some old Scotch ballad. We had been talking of education. +Suddenly the table shook under a smiting hand, and these words were +shot at me: +</P> + +<P> +"Teaching! We are teaching our young men everything except this: to +teach themselves, and to look the Lord Jesus Christ in the face! You +are doing it in America, too. You are as bad as we are in Britain." +And then immediately, and with a seraph's smile, "May I pass you a +wing?" +</P> + +<P> +He quoted from one of his books, a recent one: "Of all the chances that +can befall a young man at his first start in the race of life, the +greatest unquestionably is to be brought into contact, and, if +possible, to enter into familiar relations with a truly great man. For +this is to know what manhood means, and a manly life, not by grave +precept, or wise proverb, or ideal picture; but to see the ideal in +complete equipment and compact in reality before you, as undeniably and +as efficiently as the sun that sheds light from the sky, or the +mountain that sheds waters into the glen." +</P> + +<P> +Strong influences were about Blackie's life in his youth, and he +became, in his turn, a great influence in other lives. He was the son +of a Scotch banker, and was born in Glasgow. He had his first +schooling in Aberdeen, and he entered college at twelve and the +University of Edinburgh at fifteen. At +<SPAN CLASS="pagenum">{<A NAME="P85"></A>85}</SPAN> +the latter place he +studied under John Wilson ("Christopher North"). At Aberdeen he had +the best Latin instruction of his time. There they were famous +Latinists. At the University of Edinburgh it was mainly religion with +him, and the Bible his favourite reading. At twenty he went to +Germany, the Germany that is dead. His strong grave face would light +up when he spoke of the men he had known there. +</P> + +<P> +"Niebuhr was the biggest man Germany has produced, but Bunsen was the +greatest all round. Bunsen looked like Goethe. I told him so, and +found that others thought so. But Bunsen had a sweeter mouth than +Goethe. My father's teaching, the nature that God gave me, and +Bunsen's influence, have been the shaping forces of my life. +</P> + +<P> +"I returned to Scotland, was called to the bar at twenty-five, and ran +away from it at thirty. I was not meant for a lawyer. Aberdeen +University made me its Professor of Latin Literature, and I kept at +that till 1852, when Edinburgh appointed me Professor of Greek. I was +thirty years at that time. A few years ago I retired. There is the +story of my life." +</P> + +<P> +No. Only the story of the shell of his life. It said nothing of what +he had done. +</P> + +<P> +"Done!" exclaimed the old man. "If you live to be as old as John +Blackie, you 'll find it less important to know what a man has done +than to know what he is. Done? I 've taught Greek, written a little, +preached a good deal!" +</P> + +<P> +But many men teach Greek, and everybody writes +<SPAN CLASS="pagenum">{<A NAME="P86"></A>86}</SPAN> +nowadays, and the +globe is a vast pulpit from which all who are not dumb try to preach, +while only the deaf long to listen. John Stuart Blackie's achievements +are not to be measured by phrases. He was one of the strong teachers +of men. Many men now celebrated have told me that they studied under +him and learned little Greek but more wisdom than an entire faculty +could teach them, or any number of books. "The art of the teacher is +to teach the student to teach himself", the old man was fond of saying. +</P> + +<P> +Blackie was a marching man, you will remember. For years he marched +across Scotland, and up and down, lecturing the people. If Scotland +had a hall in which he did not lecture on Burns, on Goethe, on Scottish +Song, Education, Government—to his list of themes there was no end—it +must have been built since his death. No wonder they called him a +"peripatetic philosopher." +</P> + +<P> +He said to me: "I think I can do more good by speaking to people than +by writing to them. I have written thirty or forty volumes, if you +count the little ones, but I don't know how to write books to please +the public." +</P> + +<P> +"How can that be?" I asked. "A bookseller told me that your +'Self-Culture' has already run to thirty editions." +</P> + +<P> +"Oh, that was not written for the public, but for my students; and the +public happened to like it." +</P> + +<P> +"A distinction without much difference then." And I thought of his +"Essays on Social Subjects", "Four Phases of Morals", "Homer and the +Iliad", +<SPAN CLASS="pagenum">{<A NAME="P87"></A>87}</SPAN> +and the book "On Beauty"; of his "Songs of Religion and +Life", "The Language and Literature of the Scottish Highlands", "Musa +Burschicosa", "Songs and Legends of Ancient Greece", "Scottish Song", +"Poetical Tracts", and so on. The public had seemed to like them. And +the public of Edinburgh must have found some attraction in his novel +"Altavona", for, he said, "They made a great row over it here, thought +they had identified one of the characters, and went buzzing about over +their discovery. But I 'm not a novelist. I was trying to effect +reform in the Scottish Land Laws. I believe in Home Rule for +Scotland," he added. +</P> + +<P> +"Why not, then, for Ireland?" This was putting one's head into the +lion's mouth. But he purred gently: "I don't know Ireland! I've been +there only once!" That was a fair hit at Gladstone. "Scotland I do +know!" The last words came like a blast from the mountains. +</P> + +<P> +Once on a time Professor Blackie printed a list of one hundred and +twelve Scottish songs, and he declared that every Scotsman should know +them all. I suppose it was patriotism even more than a love of +learning that impelled him to raise £10,000 by four years' labour, and +endow with it, at Edinburgh, a Professorship of Celtic Literature. +</P> + +<P> +He lived on an edge of Edinburgh, and his house overflowed with books +and pictures. It commanded a northerly outlook, and the country rolled +up almost to the windows. "Look there," said he, pointing to the big +window of the dining room, "the sun's out, and you can see the Fife +Hills. I see them about +<SPAN CLASS="pagenum">{<A NAME="P88"></A>88}</SPAN> +three times a month when our mists lift. +The Forth Bridge is yonder"—pointing. "Wonderful thing that Forth +Bridge. You whiz through towards Perth in five minutes!" +</P> + +<P> +Above the fireplace was a large portrait of himself, painted years +before by James Archer, of the Royal Scottish Academy. It represented +its subject gazing, with head uncovered, at a mountainous landscape. +"That's the poetic Blackie," said the original, "the Blackie who loves +to roam hills and glens. Yon is Blackie militant," pointing to a +severer portrait on the opposite wall. "A very different person, as +you see. A painter can show only one aspect of a character in a single +portrait, and the public, seeing but one portrait, will see but one +side of the character. That's why there are several Blackies on these +walls. Come and see my friends as they hang." +</P> + +<P> +He led the way to the entrance hall whose walls were hung with +paintings, engravings, photographs, old prints. A bust of "Christopher +North" occupied a pedestal at the foot of the stairs. "And there's +Nolly," sang the Professor, pointing to an oil likeness of Cromwell. +We would take a step or two, and then pause to look at a portrait, +while my energetic host threw out an explanatory phrase whimsically +abbreviating the names of the men he liked best. "Tom," said he, "Tom +Carlyle, a tyrannical genius who did a lot of good in a hard way. +Bobbie," and he stopped before a portrait of Burns, "Bobbie was a +ploughman, but the artist here made him a dandy, and he never was +that." +<SPAN CLASS="pagenum">{<A NAME="P89"></A>89}</SPAN> +We must have stopped twenty times on the first flight of +stairs, and at each pause the old man would shoot a remark. At the +drawing-room door he paused again, exclaiming: "Aristotle, Shakespeare, +Goethe, and the Apostle Paul—these are my heroes!" +</P> + +<P> +The drawing-room was a national, or rather an international portrait +gallery in little. We began with a line of faces at one end of which +was Goethe, at the other end Bunsen. There were portraits everywhere, +on the walls, in the chairs, on the tables; some of them rested on the +floor. Sir Henry Irving as Becket had a chair. Blackie stopped in +front of him. "That's a man who has done a great work," said he. "The +people require amusement, and Irving has amused them nobly. Ah, you +see Mary Anderson over there. A marvellous sweet woman. Scott's next +to her on that wall, now. Ah, no, I never saw him. I wish I had known +him. 'Green grow the rushes, O!' Here are some preachers—Chalmers, +John Knox, Guthrie, Norman Macleod, Cardinal Manning. Ye 'll think it +a queer assortment, maybe, John Knox and Manning. Well, the five o' +them were men, man, men!" +</P> + +<P> +"Dear, dear, who has done this thing?" he cried, as if startled. We +stood before an easel which held a portrait of himself. An engraving +of Gladstone stood beneath, on the floor. "Wrong! It's the wrong +order," said he. "We must change it. Down goes Blackie; up goes +Gladdy. He belongs above me." He suited the action to the word and +shifted the portraits. +</P> + +<SPAN CLASS="pagenum">{<A NAME="P90"></A>90}</SPAN> + +<P> +Presently we marched up another flight of stairs to his study, which +consisted of three connecting rooms lined with books. "This is where I +live," he said. "Seven thousand volumes hereabout. See the Greek +here, here, everywhere. Man, man, Greek is the only living bridge +between the present and the past!" +</P> + +<P> +Then, snatching up a handful of newspapers from Athens, he continued, +"Some folks call Greek a dead language. Poor souls! They don't know +any better. These things should interest you. They are fresh from +Athens; not a week old." And then he read aloud from them, a bit of +politics, an advertisement, lines from the bargain counter, as if to +show that one touch of shopping makes the whole world kin. "But no +heroes, man, no heroes! There's no Aristotle now, no Shakespeare, no +Goethe, no Apostle Paul!" +</P> + +<P> +We sat awhile in the study, and Blackie "surveyed mankind from China to +Peru" in lightning flashes. He always left one panting behind, +breathless, trying to keep pace with his rushing thoughts. He had done +that sort of thing all his teaching life, and that was why men said +they learned but little Greek from him, but absorbed streams of wisdom. +They would say that when teaching, he never stuck to his text. The +best you could do was quietly to watch and listen, remember and apply. +After all, that was what he wanted men to do—to learn to teach +themselves. +</P> + +<P> +There are men, very distinguished men, who are much more easily +described than John Stuart Blackie. +<SPAN CLASS="pagenum">{<A NAME="P91"></A>91}</SPAN> +What he said of the portrait +painter is equally true of the portrait writer. I might borrow his own +phrase and say that there was the preacher, there was the teacher, the +patriot, the man of merry soul; and there was the Blackie of odd +moments who was all these in one, as I saw him, with straw hat, blue +dressing-robe, and trailing red sash. If I picture him as I saw him +then, going about the house in his queer gear and genially nicknaming +great folk in the intervals of snatches of song, you are not to think +of him as merely an eccentric and entertaining old gentleman. He was +very much at his ease, and he made me feel happily so. He was natural +man without a pose, without an affectation. He never posed. He did +not care what others thought or said about him, what he cared for was +what they thought and said about his subject, whatever that might +be—country, or religion, or song—and it all led to manliness. "Be a +man! Be God's man!" That was the burden of his teaching, preaching, +writing, scholarship, philosophy, religion. He wrought great things +for the manhood of Scotland. +</P> + +<P> +I remember his coming to Glasgow one night while I visited there. He +lectured for some society of young men. His theme was Love. When he +had finished, a minister jumped up and shouted this invitation: +</P> + +<P> +"Put that into a sermon, sir, and come and preach it to us next +Sabbath. A guinea and a bed!" +</P> + +<P> +"What?" roared Blackie. "D'ye think I'd preach the Gospel for money? +I 'll preach it for nothing if ye 'll come and listen!" +</P> + +<SPAN CLASS="pagenum">{<A NAME="P92"></A>92}</SPAN> + +<P> +Sometimes they said he was a droll person who went about Scotland +cracking jokes. And I have heard them say that he "played too much to +the gallery." But the men who said those things liked their sermons +delivered by long-faced folk, and wanted their lectures peppered with +piety. They had their suspicions of laughter. Blackie bubbled over +with good spirits. Others might make the public sigh and weep; he knew +that it is better to make them laugh; that if you make them "feel good" +they will like you well enough to listen to what you have to say and +think about it. As for "playing to the gallery" one has only to recall +Blackie's life-long admonitions to Democracy in order to see the error +of that assumption. +</P> + +<P> +The best word-picture of John Stuart Blackie was unknown to the public +at the time of which I write. It was unknown even to Blackie himself +at that time. It was written by one of his pupils, Robert W. Barbour, +a brilliant and scholarly man. His "Letters, Poems, and Pensées" +appeared subsequently in a volume edited by Professor Drummond, a +memorial volume circulated privately. It was with Professor Drummond's +permission that I published, years ago, an extract from one of +Barbour's letters. Barbour, when it was written, was in charge of a +school somewhere in the Highlands. One day his old master, Blackie, +came up from Edinburgh for a blow of the mountain air and a visit to +Barbour, who thus described the occasion: +</P> + +<P> +"Then follow minutes of Elysium, were life only the Academy, and the +world made for students and +<SPAN CLASS="pagenum">{<A NAME="P93"></A>93}</SPAN> +Professors! I hear Professor Blackie +talk of foreign travel, of the pictures it gives to hang forever in +one's after-study; and as the brave old snowy head falls back against +the claret of the sofa, he brings me out, one by one, the +pictures—Rome, Florence, Milan, Gottingen—latest hung therein. +</P> + +<P> +"After dinner the Professor and I have an hour and a half's stroll to +the school, while I drink in the delightful desultoriness of his talk, +and try to stop just when he does—which is not always easy; for you +cannot tell why this crystus should seize his fancy, or that +'potentilla' interrupt his thought. But it only breaks to flower forth +again more beautiful, as he talks first of Italy, its grace we lack so +in Scotland, its lack of sternness we could so well supply; its few +great hearts alive and active, its multitudes asleep and slow; then of +its new literature; then the political parties; then what poets should +do now, not to be so sundered from their time as Browning (who walked +these roads), nor so bound to the mere accident of rhyme. Let poets +write short, sympathetic lives of men; let them write history, not +stories. +</P> + +<P> +"And so we come to the school where the Professor has half an hour of +cross-questioning the best scholar, to the advantage of the whole +school; and such happy definitions, and such funny 'pokes' with the +mind and the walking-stick, and such instructive similes and amusing +information. They are rather annoyed when I tell them how great a man +my master is. Then they sing to him in good Scotch to his heart's +desire.... +</P> + +<SPAN CLASS="pagenum">{<A NAME="P94"></A>94}</SPAN> + +<P> +"At last he rises, and asking them something in a Gaelic too good, or +bad, or both (or rather book-born), to be understanded of them, he +breaks into a beautiful Gaelic lament, while the whole little audience +stands open-mouthed, eyed, and eared, and hardly recovers to whisper +'Good-bye, sir', ere he and I are out into the air again. +</P> + +<P> +"I apologise for having given him such little work for so long, and he +hums out something in German, which he breaks half sternly to say: +'There are four things a man must love—children, flowers, woman,' and, +must I say it? 'wine.' He went on to tell me how hateful and horrible +a nature Napoleon's always had seemed to him. Napoleon said: 'I love +nothing, I love not woman, I love not dice, I love not wine, I love not +politics.' +</P> + +<P> +"Then the hill came, and with the hill our thoughts could not help +climbing. Was I licensed? No, not ordained yet, of course. Would I +preach the splendid possibilities in man, to sink to the beasts which +perish, or to rise to heaven itself? He did not deny that the heart +was deceitful and desperately wicked, but should we not call on men to +realise for what they were made.... No man understands others, he +said, who does not leave himself more behind, and go and sit by others, +wherever they may be. +</P> + +<P> +"He could not say what Greek one should read who had few books and less +time. 'No, read only where the heart runs; read nothing except that +about which you are passionate...' So I got no lists of authors or +works. 'Read where you are +<SPAN CLASS="pagenum">{<A NAME="P95"></A>95}</SPAN> +thinking; don't read where you are not +feeling.' This and much more on war, churches, architecture, youth and +new opinions in theology, and materialism (he had read some of the +latter; he could n't for the life of him remember it) and philosophy. +</P> + +<P> +"He talked," continues Barbour, "and I treasured up. But most on the +three tongues, and what was work for poets. Then came afternoon tea +and raillery between him and my mother. Then they packed into the pony +phaeton—my professor a perfect picture, his broad leghorn bright with +a flower, scarlet of seedum, fringed by golden yew, and the ladies a +good background." +</P> + +<P> +So you see, it was the same John Stuart Blackie years and years before. +"Do stay to tea, man!" he urged, when I said I must be going, that +there would be just time to catch such-and-such a train for Glasgow +where an appointment was to be kept. +</P> + +<P> +"Ah, then punctuality's the word. Be late and be nothing." He came +down to the front door with me, his leghorn flapping, his sash-ends +trailing on the stairs. There were volcanic salutations to portraits +which we had missed when going up. I said good-bye to the Grand Old +Man of Scotland. +</P> + +<P> +"Good-bye," said he, "and dinna forget—Aristotle, Shakespeare, Goethe, +and the Apostle Paul—my heroes!" +</P> + +<P> +In the gathering dusk I descended the steps, as he stood in the open +doorway, singing, and gazing towards the Corstorphine Hill. +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="chap08"></A> + +<SPAN CLASS="pagenum">{<A NAME="P96"></A>96}</SPAN> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +CHAPTER VIII +</H3> + +<H4 ALIGN="center"> +LORD KELVIN +</H4> + +<P> +He sat on the lower stair, near the front door of his house, making +difficult calculations and strange diagrams in a little book bound in +green morocco. It would be five minutes before the carriage started, +and he recollected that fact just as he reached the door and had put on +his overcoat. Another man, almost any other, would have idled while +the five minutes passed, and most men, especially busy men, would have +fussed nervously at having to wait when they were ready. But Lord +Kelvin, being the busiest of men, never wasted time by fussing, and +never lost it in idling. Having five minutes he would solve a problem, +so he pulled the memorandum book from his coat pocket, where he always +carried it, and sat on the stair and worked. +</P> + +<P> +He was seventy then, but his spirits were as young as those of the +youngest of his students. They say that a man is as old as his +arteries. The saying might have originated with him, if it ever +occurred to him that he had arteries. But I am not sure that the +customary anatomy was not, in his case, reinforced by an ingenious +system of electrical conductors through which a mysterious energy was +driven by +<SPAN CLASS="pagenum">{<A NAME="P97"></A>97}</SPAN> +his dynamic mind. Like all great teachers he was ever +learning. But it would be difficult to say when he began to learn, for +he was only ten years old when he entered the university! And he was +thoroughly equipped for entering upon his student work even at that +age. At twenty-two he was appointed Professor of Natural Philosophy, +and he held that professorship for the rest of his life! +</P> + +<P> +Lord Kelvin was the greatest master of natural science in the +nineteenth century. The twentieth century has not, thus far, produced +his superior. He was born in 1824, he died in 1908. It was my +privilege to know him during the last fifteen years of his life. A +kinder man, one more considerate of the abysmal ignorance of the fellow +creatures with whom he came into contact, could not be imagined. He +was a plain Scotsman without a pose, without even a Scottish pose, and +it would be difficult, maybe impossible, to find a better embodiment of +life than that. Scottish he was, though born in Ireland. And his fame +was associated with that of Glasgow University which had the honour of +receiving him into student life and which received the greater honour +of his distinguished services for a period almost as long as the +psalmist allots to the life of a man. +</P> + +<P> +When he was eighty-three he outlined, as, probably, he had often +outlined before, the plan of a boy's education. "By the age of +twelve," said he, "a boy should have learned to write his own language +with accuracy and some elegance; he should have a reading knowledge of +French, should be able to +<SPAN CLASS="pagenum">{<A NAME="P98"></A>98}</SPAN> +translate Latin and easy Greek authors, +and should have some acquaintance with German. Having learned the +meaning of words, a boy should study Logic. I never found that the +small amount of Greek I learned was a hindrance to my acquiring some +knowledge of Natural Philosophy." Some knowledge of it! There, +indeed, was modesty. For who had more knowledge of natural philosophy, +or so much, as Lord Kelvin? +</P> + +<P> +Is it necessary to say that he was not born to baronies? Surely, that +much all readers may be presumed to know, some wiseacre will remark. +But if one were painting a portrait instead of writing it, nothing +would be more futile than to omit the subject's nose on the presumption +that the public knew he had one. William Thomson, who became Lord +Kelvin, was born in Belfast, the younger of two brothers. The elder +brother was James, and he became famous as a professor of engineering. +He died, however, some fifteen years before his brother. James was +named for his father, and that James, the father, was born on a farm +near Ballynahinch, County Down. His Scotch ancestors had planted +themselves in Ireland in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries. +That farmer's boy had a huge hunger for knowledge. When he was eleven +or twelve years old he taught himself, having no teacher to aid him, +the principles of the sundial, so that he could make dials for any +latitude. Also, from books which he contrived to get, he learned the +elements of mathematics. By and by he began teaching in a little +school. He taught in the summers, and in +<SPAN CLASS="pagenum">{<A NAME="P99"></A>99}</SPAN> +the winters he studied +at Glasgow University, continuing to do so for five years, and then he +was appointed a teacher in the Royal Academic Institute of Belfast. +When his son William had reached the age of eight, the scholarly parent +was appointed to the Professorship of Mathematics at Glasgow +University, a position he held for twenty years. His scientific +attainments were high, and his classical scholarship was distinguished. +He educated his sons himself, until each was ten, and then sent each to +the university. Lord Kelvin said to me once, when we were talking of +those early days: "I had a great father." +</P> + +<P> +The Kelvin is a little stream that winds through the grounds of Glasgow +University. When Queen Victoria bestowed a peerage upon Sir William +Thomson (she had knighted him many years before that) he chose for his +title the name of the little stream by whose side he had spent his +fruitful and illustrious life. His had been a life of labour, but it +had been congenial labour. He had contributed vastly to the sum of +human knowledge; he had invented useful things, to the amazement of +pedantic men who think that science should remain with scientific +persons and never be applied to the wants of the world; at least, not +applied by the scientific discoverer of the principles or things. But +with all his theories he was a practical man, and he prospered. That +day when he sat on the stair for five minutes, and concentrated the +training of sixty years upon the page of a notebook, we went to White's. +</P> + +<SPAN CLASS="pagenum">{<A NAME="P100"></A>100}</SPAN> + +<P> +Once upon a time there was a White, a James White, who, in Glasgow, +made instruments of precision which found their way all over the world. +And so he became the maker of various things that Sir William Thomson, +afterward Lord Kelvin, had invented. When White died, or retired, or +possibly before that, Kelvin acquired his business and establishment +and continued the manufacture of instruments of precision, the +establishment being conducted under White's name, as before, and as +possibly it may be to this day. Anyhow, we went to White's, where Lord +Kelvin took me into his laboratory and showed me, among other things, +his "Siphon Recorder" which was very interesting, albeit very puzzling +to the non-technical mind. I asked him what it did. The technical +descriptions I had read were rather baffling. His answer was: "The +electric current in an under-sea cable, say an Atlantic cable, is very +weak and weary. This reaches out from the shore, and helps it along, +and writes down what it says." It was for this invention that he was +knighted in 1866. He had connected the hemispheres. +</P> + +<P> +He was one of the courageous and hopeful band that laid and worked the +first Atlantic cables. Submarine telegraphy had been first employed in +1850 when a line was laid across the English Channel between Dover and +Calais. But the scientific camps were divided in opinion about the +practicability of working across thousands of miles of ocean-bed. One +faction declared it "beyond the resources of human skill." Robert +Stephenson said the project could end only in failure. Of course, the +<SPAN CLASS="pagenum">{<A NAME="P101"></A>101}</SPAN> +moneyed men were timid. Most of them were more than timid; they +were scared. Faraday had found that the transmission of signals by +submarine cable, on a line from Harwich to Holland, was not +instantaneous. "The line leaked," said the financial men, "and most of +the electricity that was pumped into it spilled into the sea. This +does not occur on land lines," they said; "we will not invest." +</P> + +<P> +William Thomson discovered and formulated "the law which governs the +retardation of electrical signals in submarine lines." Whitehouse +found that with a line 1125 miles long, a signal required a second and +a half for transmission. Thomson's law showed that on a line long +enough to connect Ireland with Newfoundland the transmission of a +signal would require six seconds. This meant a dismally limited +service. Only a few words could be cabled in an hour. The croakers +were pleased. The men whose habit it is to say "I told you so" were +joyous. The financiers would use their capital for other purposes. +But Cyrus Field of New York found the money, and William Thomson found +the way to utilize his own law to make success out of what had seemed +to others to be defeat. He invented the "Siphon Recorder." Then the +cable was laid under the Atlantic, and on August 17, 1858, Thomson's +instruments sent and received this message: +</P> + +<P> +"Europe and America are united by telegraph. Glory to God in the +highest, and on earth peace and goodwill toward men." +</P> + +<P> +Two weeks later the cable broke. The world jeered and lost faith, +according to its habit. Some +<SPAN CLASS="pagenum">{<A NAME="P102"></A>102}</SPAN> +called the cable undertaking "a +swindle", some "a hoax", some a silly toy. These were thoughtful +critics. Eight years passed, eight years of effort to make and +submerge a cable that would endure. In 1866 the difficulties were +overcome. The world congratulated itself and the men who had worked +the "miracle." Lord Kelvin told me the story as if it had been a +little affair of the day before. "There has been so much to think of +since then," said he, "and there is so much more to be done! +Harnessing Niagara is one thing." The men who plan things and do them +were already planning for that, and as in the cable project, they +called in Lord Kelvin to help. +</P> + +<P> +"How far can we transmit electricity for power and lighting purposes?" +they asked. +</P> + +<P> +"Three hundred miles," said he. +</P> + +<P> +They laid their plans for a much shorter distance, within a hundred +miles, and they thought that Kelvin was dreaming. Years later, when +power and lighting current had been successfully conveyed over much +greater distances than Kelvin had suggested, an acquaintance of mine +asked him: "Why did n't you tell us that electric power can be +conducted over these greater distances? I thought three hundred miles +was the limit." +</P> + +<P> +"The limit is not known," replied Lord Kelvin. "In the case you refer +to, I answered a specific question regarding a specific plan undertaken +for commercial purposes. The limit was improved by time and +circumstance, not by Nature. Ten years ago we could not build the +machinery that is built +<SPAN CLASS="pagenum">{<A NAME="P103"></A>103}</SPAN> +to-day, nor, on a great scale, employ the +conductors that are used to-day. My suggestion concerned the means +then known, not the means that might be developed in a decade." +</P> + +<P> +"Well, I lost a chance," said the would-be investor, who was also a +Scot. +</P> + +<P> +"So, I imagine, did the capitalists of Archimedes' day. You will +remember that they failed to provide him with a fulcrum," said Lord +Kelvin dryly. +</P> + +<P> +Lord Kelvin, when a young man, became permanently lame as the result of +a skating accident, but his lameness did not retard his physical +activity. Sir William Ramsay, the celebrated chemist who had been a +pupil of Kelvin, said that it "lent emphasis to his amusing class +demonstration of 'uniform velocity' when he, Kelvin, marched back and +forth behind his lecture-bench with as even a movement as his lameness +would permit; and the class generally burst into enthusiastic applause +when he altered his pace, and introduced them to the meaning of the +word 'acceleration.'" +</P> + +<P> +Ramsay's opinion was that Kelvin "was not what would be called a good +lecturer; he was too discursive." Ramsay doubted whether any man "with +a brain so much above the ordinary, so much more rapid in action than +the average, can be a first-rate teacher.... But Kelvin never allowed +the interest of his students to flag. His aptness in illustration and +his vigour of language prevented that. Lecturing one day on 'Couples', +he explained how forces must be applied to constitute a Couple and +illustrated the direction of the forces by turning around the +<SPAN CLASS="pagenum">{<A NAME="P104"></A>104}</SPAN> +gas-bracket. This led to a discussion on the miserable quality of +Glasgow coal-gas and how it might be improved. Following again the +main idea, he caught hold of the door and swung it to and fro; but +again his mind diverged to the difference in the structure of English +and Scottish doors. We never forgot what a 'Couple' was—but the idea +might have been conveyed more succinctly." Yes, and ten to one the +receivers of it would have forgotten what a "Couple" was! +</P> + +<P> +I heard Kelvin address the Royal Society in London while he was +president of that body. He had invited me to come, and I was curious +enough to see the most distinguished scientific body in the world +learning something from the world's most distinguished mathematician, +electrician, and natural philosopher. The hall in Burlington House was +filled. Had an earthquake swallowed the hall then, the world would +have been deprived instantaneously of dozens of men who were doing its +thinking for it. The subject of the discourse was not thrilling, nor +could the lecturer have been accused of an attempt to pander to +popularity. The subject was "The Homogeneous Division of Space." +There shot through the hour's talk a stream of descriptive phrases such +as "tetrakaidekahedronal cells", "parallelepipedal partitionings", +"enantiomorphs ", and their progeny. +</P> + +<P> +The genial old gentleman on the platform would rest his weight upon his +hands on the table, or the lecture-desk, and lean forward towards his +audience, and tell some puzzling facts about nature's puzzles, +<SPAN CLASS="pagenum">{<A NAME="P105"></A>105}</SPAN> +pouring streams of numbers and their multiplications and divisions into +their ears while they floundered in the mathematical deluge. He would +see that he had them puzzled, that his mind was working too fast for +them; he must have surmised it from the expressions on their faces, for +while he announced theories, discoveries, and drew conclusions, they, +with all their knowledge and experience, would look as blank or +bewildered as schoolboys, and he would step back from the table and, +with a winning smile, remark, "It's this way", or "After all, it's +simpler than it seems", or "I think it would be demonstrated so", and +turning swiftly on one heel would face the blackboard and draw upon it +in strokes that were like flashes, a diagram which made it all so clear +that his hearers chuckled, or laughed outright; then swiftly he would +turn again and face them with that winning smile which seemed to mean, +"See how simple it is!" Then they would applaud him, which is very +difficult for the Royal Society to do. +</P> + +<P> +Lord Kelvin's was the first house in the world to be lighted by +electricity throughout. He utilized the current in every nook and +corner, in attics and cellars, in cupboards, closets and wardrobes, +long before anybody else had attempted to do so. This was when +everybody else thought electric lighting a luxury, but his purpose was +to prove it a necessity. That was his way. Whenever he acquired new +knowledge he applied it forthwith to the betterment of the human lot. +He thought that science for the sake of science, or scientists, was as +stupid a formula as "art for art's sake." Cheese for cheese's sake +<SPAN CLASS="pagenum">{<A NAME="P106"></A>106}</SPAN> +would be quite as useful to mankind. Of what use was knowledge +if it were not applied to the needs of man? +</P> + +<P> +He was a yachtsman, but not for sporting purposes, or faddishness, or +luxurious idleness. He loved the sea, and his yacht, a schooner named +<I>Lalla Rookh</I>, enabled him to wrest from the sea some of its secrets. +For twenty years he went sailing every summer, living aboard weeks at a +time. He held the certificate of a master navigator. It was on board +the <I>Lalla Rookh</I> that he invented his famous apparatus for taking +soundings and his no less famous compass. These things became +necessities for navigators. +</P> + +<P> +The first pair of telephonic instruments that Alexander Graham Bell +brought to Europe were presented by him to Lord Kelvin, who immediately +put them to use by connecting his house with that of his brother-in-law +and assistant, Doctor J. T. Bottomley. The first electrically lighted +house in the world was the first in the old world to be connected by +telephone for purposes professional, social, personal, and domestic. +For how could Kelvin, who was always peering into the future, be afraid +of new things? He peered into the past, too, for you remember how he +startled the orthodox mind by his calculations regarding the age of the +earth. +</P> + +<P> +Lord Salisbury, just before he became Prime Minister for the last time +(his long term of 1895-1902) was Chancellor of the University of Oxford +and at the same time President of the British Association for the +Advancement of Science. At Oxford, +<SPAN CLASS="pagenum">{<A NAME="P107"></A>107}</SPAN> +in a memorable year, and in +behalf of the University of which he was chancellor, he welcomed the +association of which he was president, and he reminded his learned +listeners that Lord Kelvin, whom he alluded to as "the greatest living +master of natural science amongst us", was the first to point out that +the amount of time required by the advocates of the Darwinian theory +for the working out of the process of evolution which they had imagined +"could not be conceded without assuming the existence of a totally +different set of natural laws from those with which we are acquainted." +Hot things cool. The once seething earth has cooled and is cooling. +So many million years ago it must have been hotter than now by +calculable degrees. "But if at any time it was hotter at the surface +by fifty degrees Fahrenheit than it is now, life would then have been +impossible on this planet." +</P> + +<P> +Lord Kelvin assured us that organic life on earth cannot have existed +more than a hundred million years ago. So if you believed in +Archbishop Ussher's chronology, and niggardly dealt out to the earth an +age of only six thousand years, or went so far as Professor Tait with +his ten million, you had, by Kelvin's figuring, a tremendous margin to +fill up somehow. Of course the orthodox jumped and squealed. But the +geologists and biologists stamped and yelled. Some of them wanted more +than Kelvin's stingy allowance; they wanted not one hundred million +years, but hundreds of millions. And there was a pretty ferment in the +camps! +</P> + +<P> +Sir William Ramsay I have quoted on Kelvin's +<SPAN CLASS="pagenum">{<A NAME="P108"></A>108}</SPAN> +illustration, in the +class room, of the term "acceleration." Kelvin maintained speed when +he had got it up. Remember that he was lame, and consider his energy. +He would dart at an object that stood a few feet from him, on his +lecture-bench, use it for whatever demonstration was required, and then +dart at another, or at the blackboard, or at the pointer, as if he were +a busy bee extracting honey from the flowers. There was certainty +about everything he did; no hesitation, no floundering, no hemming and +hawing for a word, or the next act. His lameness merely lent emphasis +to the fact that he was walking; it did not prevent his swiftness of +movement. Across the grounds of the university I toiled after him like +"panting time." He gave the impression of readiness for a race, and +might challenge you at any minute. His gown was always streaming +behind him, his mortar-board cap in imminent danger of blowing off in +the breeze stirred by his advance. Well, he had raced the world many +years and had always won. +</P> + +<P> +Some great men are so impressed by their own greatness that their +manner becomes ponderous and vast as if they lived in a belief that +they cast shadows on the sun. Not so Lord Kelvin, who never seemed to +think that great men thought him a greater than themselves. His manner +was simple, gentle, courteous, and direct. He was easy to talk with, +and yet he had no small talk. But it was not easy to answer his +questions. There was never such a man as he for asking questions +unless it were the Chinese Viceroy, Li Hung Chang. Whatever your +profession, +<SPAN CLASS="pagenum">{<A NAME="P109"></A>109}</SPAN> +trade, interests in life, he would put questions that +went to the roots of your matter and revealed on his part a greater +knowledge of the problems involved than you dreamed existed. By +tireless questioning he learned. But where Li Hung Chang turned the +results of his questioning to his own benefit, Kelvin applied them to +the good of the world. Yet when, in 1896, they celebrated the fiftieth +anniversary of his professorship at Glasgow he was, I take it, the most +surprised man in all the galaxy of the famous. The dear old gentleman +with the domed head, the white hair, and generous white beard seemed to +be asking himself, "What next? Why all this fuss and feathers?" But +he was apparently genuinely pleased, too, for all the tributes bespoke +honest admiration of achievement and character. Fifty-one learned +societies, twelve colleges, and twenty-eight universities were +represented. They were of all countries. That day the world, and all +that was therein, lifted its hat to Lord Kelvin. +</P> + +<P> +I may slip in here a quotation from Emerson. "In Newton," said +Emerson, "science was as easy as breathing; he used the same wit to +weigh the moon that he used to buckle his shoes; and all his life was +simple, wise, and majestic. So it was in Archimedes—always self-same, +like the sky. In Linnæus, in Franklin, the like sweetness and +equality—no stilts, no tiptoe; and their results are wholesome and +memorable to all men." +</P> + +<P> +What Lord Kelvin had done, and was still to do, could not be described +by any writing of less than encyclopaedic scope, and a knowledge as +wide and +<SPAN CLASS="pagenum">{<A NAME="P110"></A>110}</SPAN> +deep as his own. Helmholtz may be quoted, as he has +been quoted by many who attempted the larger task from a scientific +standpoint. Helmholtz was his intimate friend. Helmholtz said: "He is +an eminent mathematician, but the gift to translate real facts into +mathematical equations, and vice versa, is, by far, more rare than to +find a solution of a given mathematical problem, and in this direction +he is most eminent and original." +</P> + +<P> +Kelvin's first published paper was a defence of the mathematician, +Fourier. His second was on "The Uniform Motion of Heat in Homogeneous +Solid Bodies, and Its Connection With The Mathematical Theory of +Electricity." I think he was eighteen then. He was certainly showing +the bent of his mind. Fifty or sixty years later he said, in a +presidential address to the Royal Society: "Tribulation, not +undisturbed progress, gives life and soul, and leads to success where +success can be reached." I do not know what his tribulations were, but +they may have been the tribulations of defeat. He may have faced many +defeats, but he won more successes. And the world was more concerned +with scientific discoveries during his career than it had been in the +time of Count Rumford and Humphry Davy, whose work in disproving that +heat is a material body had been forgotten because nobody seemed to +think it more important than curious. Sometime in the eighteen-forties +James Prescott Joule ascertained the dynamical equivalent of heat, and +settled the fact that heat is a mode of motion. Kelvin may be said to +have leaped to the side of his friend. +</P> + +<SPAN CLASS="pagenum">{<A NAME="P111"></A>111}</SPAN> + +<P> +Lord Kelvin was the first to appreciate the importance of Joule's +discovery, and it was not long before he placed the whole subject of +thermodynamics on a scientific basis. He put his conclusions into +these easily understandable words: "During any transformation of energy +of one form into energy of another form, there is always a certain +amount of energy rendered unavailable for further useful application. +No known process in nature is exactly reversible: that is to say, there +is no known process by which we can convert a given amount of energy of +one form into energy of another form, and then, reversing the process, +reconvert the energy of the second form thus obtained into the original +quantity of energy of the first form. In fact, during any +transformation of energy from one form into another, there is always a +certain portion of energy changed into heat in the process of +conversion, and the heat thus produced becomes dissipated and diffused +by radiation and conduction. Consequently there is a tendency in +nature for all the energy in the universe, of whatever kind it be, +gradually to assume the form of heat, and having done so to become +equally diffused. Now, were all the energy of the universe converted +into uniformly diffused heat, it would cease to be available for +producing mechanical effort, since, for that purpose, we must have a +hot source and a cooler condenser. This gradual degradation of energy +is perpetually going on, and, sooner or later, unless there be some +restorative power of which we have, at present, no knowledge whatever, +the present state of things must come to an end." +</P> + +<SPAN CLASS="pagenum">{<A NAME="P112"></A>112}</SPAN> + +<P> +He revealed the Electrodynamics of Qualities of Metals; the size of +atoms, the horse-power of the sun; he determined the rigidity of the +earth, the laws of the tides, made far-reaching discoveries in +electricity, in vortex motion; it might be said of him that he took the +universe for his field. +</P> + +<P> +But in a chapter like this one is tempted to dwell too long on high +achievements. What attracted one more than the achievements was the +man, the kindly, sympathetic man who loved truth not celebrity, and +work more than its rewards. He was ever the same, whether one met him +in Glasgow, London, at sea, or in America, the same simple, +straightforward, kindly character. He retained his mental activity to +the end. He died at eighty-four, and seemed only to be departing on +another journey in quest of truth and friendship. +</P> + +<P> +On one of the afternoons when I sat with him in his study, within the +precincts of the university, he said, "Patience, great patience is the +need of this generation. It asks results before it earns them. Man is +too wasteful of the resources he finds in the earth. The most of our +coal is lost in smoke; the most of our heat is dissipated in the air. +We need patience not less than courage in dealing with our problems." +The study was lined with engravings and photographs. Darwin and Joule +and Faraday looked down from the walls, and there were pictures of the +cable-laying ships, the <I>Hooper</I>, and the <I>Great Eastern</I>. There were +trophies of travel,—from specimens of sea-bottom along the African +coast, to quite personal mementos of his lectures at +<SPAN CLASS="pagenum">{<A NAME="P113"></A>113}</SPAN> +Johns +Hopkins University and other places in America. +</P> + +<P> +A typical day of Lord Kelvin's was, in outline, this: After breakfast +he would, at nine, face his class in the university and lecture for an +hour. I heard him in such an hour lecture on "Kepler's Laws." He +lectured to his class three days a week. After the lecture he would go +to White's where he was perfecting an electric metre. After White's he +would return to the university and lecture until one o'clock, say, on +the "Higher Mathematics." Then home to lunch. After lunch consulting +work on the lighting of a town by electricity. After that an hour in +Lady Kelvin's drawing-room, taking tea with friends. Then work in the +study over the laws governing the formation of crystals. Then dinner. +Then calculations in the study, or writing a paper for one of the +numerous societies of which he was a working member. In the intervals, +with his secretary's aid, he would attend to his correspondence. And, +if waiting for his secretary, out of a coat pocket would come the +little green book, and into it would go notes, calculations, or +diagrams, perhaps all three. That little green book would come out +whenever he had a minute to spare, in his dressing-room, or on the +stairs, or in a train, or a cab, wherever he happened to be, and the +thought flashed. I often wondered what his thoughts were on the +conservation of personal energy. +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="chap09"></A> + +<SPAN CLASS="pagenum">{<A NAME="P114"></A>114}</SPAN> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +CHAPTER IX +</H3> + +<H4 ALIGN="center"> +TENNYSON +</H4> + +<P> +Freshwater is an overgrown village which sprawls about the western end +of the lovely Isle of Wight. The meanness of much of its masonry is +compensated by its remarkably wholesome air. Man has done his best to +spoil Freshwater, but he has not wholly succeeded—yet. Give him time, +and more radicalism, and he will make it one of the ugly spots of +earth. I made its acquaintance in the early spring of 1882, and +subsequently have visited it many times. +</P> + +<P> +When I first made acquaintance with Freshwater, there was no railway +within eleven miles, Newport being the terminus of the island lines +which were as drolly inconvenient as they are now. The fiddling, +amateurish railway, which has come in since then, has not only robbed +Freshwater of its seclusion but has saddled parts of the rolling +country with shabby streets of mean houses worthy of a Montana mining +town. Towards the downs and the sea much of the old charm remains. +About Farringford it is undisturbed. And it was at Farringford, that +lovely estate, that Tennyson lived. +</P> + +<P> +I had quarters in a house that faced the sea. And these quarters were +mine whenever, in the +<SPAN CLASS="pagenum">{<A NAME="P115"></A>115}</SPAN> +thirty-six years since that delightful May, +I returned to Freshwater. They are mine no longer. The house has +become an hotel. Now, in the thirty-eighth year of my Freshwatering, I +have lodgment elsewhere. The house that sheltered me so long is +scarcely a quarter of a mile from Tennyson's Lane, and many of the +poet's friends have stayed in it, and friends of Watts, for that great +artist also lived in Freshwater, first at a house which is now called +Dimbola, and subsequently at "The Briary", a charming home built by the +Prinseps and facing Tennyson's "noble Down." In the rooms to which I +have so often retreated, and where I so often watched the blue Channel +dancing in the sunshine, there are, or were, many mementos of past +days. Some of them were photographs, and, as any one who knows the +Freshwater legends may guess, they were taken by Mrs. Cameron, the +first of the artist photographers, and, in her day, the celebrator of +all the celebrated who came to Freshwater to visit the poet. +</P> + +<P> +Mrs. Cameron lived at Dimbola which is at the southeastern corner of +the Farringford estate. "She were a concentric lady who wore velvet +gowns a-trailin' in the dusty roads," as one old-timer described her to +me. Her photography was not professional but amateur, and her skill in +it was quite remarkable. So was her persistence. She would not permit +a possible "subject" to escape without "taking" him or her. She was +quite intimate with the Tennysons, and always called the poet by his +Christian name. One day, while there was a smallpox scare about, she +rushed to Farringford, +<SPAN CLASS="pagenum">{<A NAME="P116"></A>116}</SPAN> +with a stranger in tow, and finding +Tennyson within, she opened the door of the room where he was sitting, +and bidding the stranger follow, cried, "Alfred, I 've brought a doctor +to vaccinate you. You must be vaccinated!" +</P> + +<P> +Tennyson, horrified, fled to an adjoining room and bolted the door +after him. +</P> + +<P> +"Alfred, Alfred," Mrs. Cameron called, "I've brought a doctor. You +must be vaccinated; you really must!" +</P> + +<P> +There was no reply. +</P> + +<P> +"Oh, Alfred, you 're a coward! Come and be vaccinated!" +</P> + +<P> +She won. +</P> + +<P> +When Garibaldi visited Tennyson, he planted a tree in the Farringford +grounds. And Mrs. Cameron planted herself before him, and begged him +to come and be photographed. Rather eccentric, as my old-timer had +tried to convey, she had that morning hastened to Farringford without +hat, or gloves, and with her sleeves rolled up, just as she came from +her "dark room", and her hands were stained with photographic +chemicals. Garibaldi seems to have taken her for a beggar and was +turning away, when she knelt before him and implored him to let her +photograph him. +</P> + +<P> +Again she won. She always won in such contests. +</P> + +<P> +Mrs. Cameron's day was before the days of dry plates and films. The +accumulation of negatives that she left when, with her husband, she +returned to Ceylon, where they had formerly lived for many years, +passed into the possession of a son. I do not +<SPAN CLASS="pagenum">{<A NAME="P117"></A>117}</SPAN> +know what has been +their subsequent fate; but if uninjured they would be very interesting +now, and a collection of prints from them would have a value all its +own. She made a number, I daresay many photographs of Tennyson and the +members of his family; and when Longfellow came to Farringford, the +good lady triumphantly proclaimed him a captive. +</P> + +<P> +She was a kind-hearted, good-natured soul, but when she wanted to carry +a point she could be as imperious and decisive as any one that ever +lived in the Isle. The neighbourhood children she would persuade by +"sweeties", or, failing these, by main force, to "come and be +photographed" in this character or that, and there were maid servants +with classic faces and ploughmen with fine heads who posed for her as +characters in plays and poems, in costumes which she would improvise. +Mrs. Cameron was a generous, interesting, impulsive woman. Much of +Freshwater legend gathers about her, and her camera, and her diligence +in amateur theatricals. +</P> + +<P> +In my island study there hung for many years the two best photographs +of Tennyson that I ever saw. They were taken by Mrs. Cameron. The +first was, I believe, taken about 1870, or '72. It represents the poet +seated, and holding with both hands a book half opened in his lap. He +wears a black morning coat, closely buttoned, cut in the fashion of the +time. Instead of the big rolling collar usually shown in his +portraits, here is the stiff "dickey" of Piccadilly; the cuffs, too, +are in the mode, and over the coat a +<SPAN CLASS="pagenum">{<A NAME="P118"></A>118}</SPAN> +monocle hangs. It is quite +out of the style of other Tennyson portraits with which I am reasonably +familiar, but on that account it has a special interest of its own. +The second photograph, to which I have alluded, is not only thoroughly +characteristic but has achieved some fame as "The Dirty Monk", and is +thus autographed by its original: +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +"<I>I prefer 'The Dirty Monk'</I><BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 2em"><I>to the others of me.</I></SPAN><BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 5em"><I>A. Tennyson.</I></SPAN><BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em"><I>Except one by Mayall.</I>"</SPAN><BR> +</P> + +<BR> + +<P> +When I returned to Freshwater for three or four months in 1913, after +several years' absence, I looked, as usual, for this precious pair. +But they had gone, and no one could tell, or would tell, when or where. +Some souvenir hunter must have loved them too well. +</P> + +<P> +There are, or were, some Morland prints, too. George Morland lived and +painted in Freshwater, in a bit cottage that stood in front of the site +of this house, but which disappeared nearly a century ago. Mrs. +Cameron, could she revisit the glimpses of the moon, would find her +quiet old village developed into a sprawling, country town. It had +five hundred inhabitants when Tennyson first came to it in a sailboat +from the mainland, in 1852, or 1853; it has between five and ten +thousand now, west of the Yar. The number shifts with the summer +visitors, and the military cannot be counted, for they come and go in a +variable stream. Ever since the war began, the fit and the wounded, +the trained and the +<SPAN CLASS="pagenum">{<A NAME="P119"></A>119}</SPAN> +untrained have passed through in large +numbers, or have stayed for longer or shorter terms. A war town has +grown up on a border of the old town. Golden Hill is now an expanse of +barrack huts and not of yellow gorse. +</P> + +<P> +Mrs. Cameron believed in getting things done, not in talking about +them. She transformed the coal shed at Dimbola into a dark room for +developing her negatives; and the poultry house became a studio. When +her husband, a recluse who had n't so much as seen the beach for a +dozen years, wanted a lawn, she had turf dug by night and laid in the +garden. Calling her husband to the window next morning, she pointed to +the expanse of new-laid turf and said, "There 's your lawn!" as if any +one would deny her power to work miracles. +</P> + +<P> +Farringford, of course, is enclosed by hedges and trees, literally +surrounded by them. The house itself is still further protected from +the gaze of the outer world by an inner circle of trees and shrubbery. +The estate is bisected by the lovely lane which has been described in +every account ever written of Tennyson, and photographed a thousand +times. It, in turn, has a hedgerow on each side and is over-arched by +elms. It is really an approach to the farm which is attached to the +home acres, and through it, for walking purposes, the public has a +right-of-way. At the crest of the rising ground is a little green +door, set in the high-banked hedge which guards the home lawns, and by +this green door the poet would pass to the down along another lane +which runs at right angles to the one associated with his +<SPAN CLASS="pagenum">{<A NAME="P120"></A>120}</SPAN> +name +and immediately opposite the green door. A few feet beyond this, a +rustic bridge overhead spans Tennyson's Lane, and by this bridge the +poet could cross into a woodland without having to enter the Lane, +where his privacy might be disturbed, and so walk to Maiden's Croft, +where a little green summerhouse stands under the trees and where he +often wrote and meditated. From this summerhouse he had the best view +of the beautiful and noble down. From the windows of Farringford there +are exquisite views of seascape and landscape, with lush fields in the +foreground,—a view, on sunny days, of quite un-English colour. In the +distance St. Catherine's Point and above it the white crown of the +Landslip, and above that the dark shape of St. Boniface Down, lifting +its head eight hundred feet toward the clouds; in the middle distance a +tumble of green hills, and to the right the sea dappled with shafts of +light and colour ever changing,—mauves and blues and greens, splashed +with browns and reds, shifting and playing there under the sun. It +might be Italian sea and Italian landscape. And Tennyson called it his +"bit of Italy." You can see it just as he saw it, if you pause at an +iron gate on your left, near the top of the rise in the Lane, and you +will have in the foreground a group of Italian-like trees beyond which +Stag Rock and Arched Rock stand with their feet in the tiny bay. It is +of all bits of English land and water one of the most memorable for +form and colour,—this little Italy. And it drew Tennyson to +Farringford and held him there. +</P> + +<SPAN CLASS="pagenum">{<A NAME="P121"></A>121}</SPAN> + +<P> +Tennyson was not seen much in the village, but he often walked to the +bay. Here is my first glimpse of him: a tall man looking like a +cloaked brigand; his head was swallowed by a great hat, soft and black, +and he was pointing with a stick. +</P> + +<P> +"Making yourself at home here, aren't you?" he was understood to say in +something between a rumble and growl. +</P> + +<P> +An artist friend of mine was seated on a sketching stool at the iron +gate, making a study of the "bit of Italy." Before the stool was an +easel, a palette, and a box of water colours. Tennyson, who was +near-sighted, saw at first only the seated figure on the camp stool, +leaning back against the open gate and gazing at the unique view. +</P> + +<P> +"Very much at home," continued the poet. +</P> + +<P> +The right-of-way was for walking only, not for sitting in chairs and +encumbering the earth with easels and general impedimenta of the fine +arts. My friend, who was a stranger in the land, had probably not +thought of this, and, having a sudden consciousness of intrusion, +whispered to me, around the hedge: +</P> + +<P> +"Tennyson! O Lord!" +</P> + +<P> +The great man drew nearer, and then, taking in the situation, said: +</P> + +<P> +"Ah, painting! Brothers in art. Good morning!" +</P> + +<P> +This was perhaps tender treatment as compared with what we had heard a +pair of strangers might have expected. But my friend, although +flurried because Jove had passed, remained at work. I forget, though, +whether the sketch was ever completed. +<SPAN CLASS="pagenum">{<A NAME="P122"></A>122}</SPAN> +I was curious enough, +however, to pass on, by a detour, in the hope of seeing Jove on his +homeward stroll. But he had vanished, and there were no thunderings, +near or far. +</P> + +<P> +Mrs. Cameron and her household, after years at enlivening and +photographing Freshwater, returned to Ceylon. The departure was an +occasion for a liberal distribution of photographs among the +inhabitants of the West Wight; and where there was a souvenir to be +given or a tip to be left, mounted portraits of celebrities, or of +models dressed as characters in fiction or poetry, were handed out. +Thus it happened that many of the pleasant lodging-houses in the +vicinity became galleries of Cameron art. +</P> + +<P> +"Ideal" Ward had built a country mansion within a mile of Farringford. +It was called Weston Manor. The eminent Catholic scholar and writer +was, of course, a friend of Tennyson. And the two would dispute, of +course, about religion, or, rather, about theology, without the +slightest effect upon each other's opinions. The house is still in the +possession of the Ward family, but is not occupied by them. For some +years the private chaplain at Weston Manor was Father Peter +Haythornthwaite, a most agreeable and hard-working man. Father Peter, +as they called him in the island, was also a friend of Tennyson and +frequently a companion of his walks. He told me an amusing story +connected with his first dinner at Farringford. Tennyson had an Irish +maid, Mary by name. The family were very fond of her; her devotion to +them was equalled only by her zeal in serving them, which she would + +<SPAN CLASS="pagenum">{<A NAME="P123"></A>123}</SPAN> +sometimes do in a domineering, if loyal manner, to which the poet +bowed submissively. Tennyson disliked formality and stiffness, and was +uncomfortable in a dress suit and starched shirt. Dressing for dinner +he avoided whenever he could. Mary had laid out his most ceremonious +clothes. +</P> + +<P> +"Put them away," said he. "I 'll not wear them!" +</P> + +<P> +Mary insisted. +</P> + +<P> +"Now, I see," said Tennyson. "I am to wear them for that priest, eh?" +</P> + +<P> +"Plaze, sir!" +</P> + +<P> +"Will he come in his altar robes and stole?" +</P> + +<P> +"The saints forbid!" said she. +</P> + +<P> +"If they forbid him, why should they compel me?" he asked. +</P> + +<P> +"It 's I, yer Honour, that tell ye, for the sake of the house! And he +'s a man of God." +</P> + +<P> +"I could n't resist that, could I?" the poet asked of Father Peter. +"And so," said he, "I dressed." +</P> + +<P> +At the table one evening, Tennyson, being in a humorous mood, composed +rhyming epitaphs upon every name that occurred to him. +</P> + +<P> +"What would you say of me?" asked Father Peter. +</P> + +<P> +Instantly this couplet rolled from the lips of the host: +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +"Here lies P. Haythornthwaite,<BR> +Human by nature, Roman by fate."<BR> +</P> + +<BR> + +<P> +A letter of Mrs. Cameron's came under my observation one day, and I was +permitted to make a note from it. "Tennyson," she wrote, "was very +violent with the girls on the subject of the rage for +<SPAN CLASS="pagenum">{<A NAME="P124"></A>124}</SPAN> +autographs. +He said he believed every crime and every vice in the world was +connected with the passion for autographs and anecdotes and records; +that the desiring of anecdotes and acquaintance with the lives of great +men was treating them like pigs to be ripped open for the public; and +that he knew he himself should be ripped open like a pig; that he +thanked God Almighty with his whole heart and soul that he knew +nothing, and would know nothing, of Jane Austen; and that there were no +letters preserved, either of Shakespeare's, or of Jane Austen's; and +that they had not been ripped open like pigs. Then he said that the +post for two days had brought him no letters, and that he thought there +was a sort of syncope in the world as to him and his fame." +</P> + +<P> +That last touch is delicious. Tennyson did not like to be ignored. He +was proud, and justly proud, of his fame. Sir Edwin Arnold said: +"Tennyson had a noble vanity, a proud pleasure in the very notoriety +which brought strangers peeping and stealing about his gates." Perhaps +so, but it was a case of "It needs be that offences come, but woe be to +him through whom the offence cometh." He hated to have tributes thrust +upon him; he hated intrusions upon his privacy, and had suffered too +much from that sort of thing at Farringford when summer visitors +overran Freshwater. He liked to be recognised along the country roads; +he liked to have people lift their hats to him; he liked to know that +his work meant something to the passer by. But he shunned the merely +curious stranger. +</P> + +<SPAN CLASS="pagenum">{<A NAME="P125"></A>125}</SPAN> + +<P> +And so it was natural enough that he should have built a summer home on +the mainland, Aldworth, where there was no summer resort and no plague +of the curious. His friend, James Knowles, of the <I>Nineteenth +Century</I>, designed the house, and there Tennyson passed many happy +summers and autumns. And there, on a moonlit night in the autumn of +1892, he died. Whether he loved Farringford more, or Aldworth more, I +do not know. But probably he was as much attached to one as to the +other, for each had its special associations. +</P> + +<P> +The Tennysonian cloak, the Tennysonian hat, the rolling collar, and the +touzled beard and hair were not unique. There lived at one time in +Freshwater a brother of the poet. He resembled the poet and dressed +like him. At the same time there was another resident of the place who +not only resembled Lord Tennyson but "got himself up" in close +imitation of his dress and manner. He was a warm admirer of Tennyson, +and was immensely flattered to be mistaken for him by strangers. Small +boys of the neighbourhood learned speedily to extract penny tips from +this adoring person by pretending to mistake him for their celebrated +townsman. On the whole it was rather a good thing to have three +figures in the place, any one of which might be looked upon or followed +by the summer visitor as the famous poet. It might be puzzling if the +stranger met two or three Tennysons in a mile, but two of them could +easily divert attention from the third, who was skilled in avoiding +strangers. +</P> + +<P> +There was an aged man who had been a gardener +<SPAN CLASS="pagenum">{<A NAME="P126"></A>126}</SPAN> +at Farringford and +was living on a little pension from that quarter. One morning he heard +that the Poet Laureate had died. Meeting Father Peter in the road he +expressed his grief that "his pore ludship have passed away." Then, +with much concern for the succession, he asked: +</P> + +<P> +"D'ye think likely Mr. Hallam will follow his father's business?" +</P> + +<P> +Father Peter thought it quite unlikely. +</P> + +<P> +"Ah," said the pensioner, much relieved. "I think nowt on 't, nowt!" +</P> + +<P> +I have seen Farringford described as "a beautifully wooded gentleman's +park." It must, at least, be acknowledged that if the gentleman were +not beautifully wooded, he lived there, and that he lived a beautiful +and serene life, a noble life, adding greatly to the fame of England, +and no less to the human lot. Forty of his eighty-three years were +Farringford years. Never was poet more happily placed than in this +earthly paradise. Every circumstance of loyalty and love, of +understanding and devotion, surrounded him here and at Aldworth. And +never had genius a more devoted aid than Tennyson had in his son +Hallam, the present Lord Tennyson, shield and buckler to his father and +to his gentle mother, the dear lady who seemed like a spirit held on +earth only by the devotion of husband and son. A family life richer +and more tender one does not know among all the lives that one has +seen, or ever heard of. To write more about it now would be impious. +</P> + +<P> +Shortly after Tennyson had been buried in Westminster +<SPAN CLASS="pagenum">{<A NAME="P127"></A>127}</SPAN> +Abbey, on +an October day in 1892, a committee of his neighbours in Freshwater was +formed for the purpose of erecting some memorial in the rural region +where half his life had been passed. The memorial was meant to be a +local and neighbourly undertaking, and it was thought, naturally +enough, that it might be carried out in the form of a monument, tablet, +or window, in the village church. But a more fitting idea was adopted. +</P> + +<P> +There stood on the summit of the High Down, "Tennyson's Down" as it is +more generally known, a great beacon of heavy, blackened timber +surmounted by a cresset, in which, on old nights, long ago, fire had +blazed when alarms were signalled from hill to hill along the coast. +This beacon had been taken over by the Lighthouse Board and had served +through decades as a mark for navigation for the endless processions of +ships passing up and down the English Channel and through the Solent by +the Needles. Six or seven hundred feet above the sea, and near the +edge of a long white cliff, it was easily seen by navigators bound +inward or outward. For forty years Tennyson had made it a point of +call in his almost daily walks. The committee believed that in the +place of the old wooden structure a granite shaft could be erected, +serving at once as a memorial to Tennyson and a beacon to seamen. +</P> + +<P> +The Reverend Doctor Merriman, Rector of Freshwater, Colonel Crozier, +Doctor Hollis, and others, invited me to join the committee, and I did +so, suggesting that Americans would wish to share in +<SPAN CLASS="pagenum">{<A NAME="P128"></A>128}</SPAN> +erecting the +proposed memorial, but that it would be scarcely possible for them to +participate were the object undertaken purely as a village or +neighbourhood tribute. The broader suggestion was adopted. A Celtic +cross in Cornish granite was designed by Mr. J. L. Pearson, of the +Royal Academy, and the Brethren of Trinity House (the Lighthouse Board) +consented to preserve it in perpetuity if the committee would provide +for its erection. I communicated with my old friend, Mrs. James T. +Fields of Boston, the widow of Tennyson's American publisher, and she +brought together an American committee for the purpose of coöperating +with the one in Freshwater. Doctor Oliver Wendell Holmes became her +first associate and the first American subscriber. The daughters of +Longfellow and Lowell were members of the American committee, and so +were Mrs. Agassiz, Mrs. Julia Ward Howe, Mrs. Margaret Deland, Miss +Sarah Orne Jewett, Professor Charles Eliot Norton, Mr. Thomas Bailey +Aldrich, Mr. H. O. Houghton, Mr. George H. Mifflin, and others. +Several American newspapers courteously drew attention to the proposed +memorial, and Mr. George W. Smalley made an appeal through the New York +Tribune, as I did through other papers. Subscriptions were purposely +confined to small amounts so that the humblest lover of Tennyson could +contribute his mite. I remember that among the first to come were +twenty-five cents "from a bricklayer", and "a dollar from a proof +reader." +</P> + +<P> +The cross was erected and now, a quarter of a century later, it shows +scarcely a sign of weather, +<SPAN CLASS="pagenum">{<A NAME="P129"></A>129}</SPAN> +though it fronts the sun, and the +storms beat upon it, seven hundred feet above the sea. It bears this +inscription: +</P> + +<P CLASS="noindent" ALIGN="center"> + IN MEMORY<BR> + OF ALFRED<BR> + LORD TENNYSON<BR> + THIS CROSS IS<BR> + RAISED A BEACON<BR> + TO SAILORS BY<BR> + THE PEOPLE OF<BR> + FRESHWATER AND<BR> + OTHER FRIENDS<BR> + IN ENGLAND<BR> + AND AMERICA +</P> + +<BR> + +<P> +Cliff-erosion causes the precipitous brink to creep slowly toward the +cross. By or before the middle of the present century it may become +necessary to remove the Beacon Cross some yards to the north. +</P> + +<P> +It was, I think, on the day of Tennyson's burial that the following +letter appeared in the <I>Times</I>, over the signature P.L.I. +</P> + +<BR> + +<P> +"Perhaps the following anecdotes may be of interest, related as they +were in a paper read privately by the late James T. Fields, in 1872, +during my stay in Boston. +</P> + +<P> +"Mr. Fields said that while staying with the poet at Farringford, +Tennyson said at midnight, 'Fields, let 's take a walk!' It was a dark +and wild night, the sea breaking at the foot of the cliffs. Knowing +the dangers of the place and his near-sightedness, I feared for his +safety; however, he trudged on through the thick grass with his stick, +I also using the one he had lent me on setting out. +</P> + +<SPAN CLASS="pagenum">{<A NAME="P130"></A>130}</SPAN> + +<P> +"Presently he dropped on hands and knees in the grass. Alarmed I +asked, 'What is the matter?' He answered in a strong, Lincolnshire +accent, 'Violets, man, violets! Get thee down and have a smell; it +will make thee sleep the better!' He had detected them by his acute +sense of smell, aided by his strong love of nature. I dropped down, +and the sense of the ridiculous struck me forcibly,—in such a position +at midnight lying in the thick grass. He joined in my laughter, and we +started for home. +</P> + +<P> +"He was egotistical to an extreme, but it was superb, and deeply +impressed one. An old lady once, sitting next to Tennyson while some +of his poems were being read, exclaimed, 'Oh! how exquisite!' 'I +should say it was,' replied the poet. At another time he said no one +could read 'Maud' but himself. 'Fields, come and see me, and I will +give you "Maud" so that you will never forget it.' This was perfectly +true. I felt I could have listened to him forever, and would go any +distance to hear it as he gave it." +</P> + +<BR> + +<P> +There was much more to the same purpose. But Mr. Fields, like several +others who have written about Tennyson, may have over-emphasised the +poet's "egotism." Tennyson was an absolutely honest man. He said what +he thought. If another said that his work was "exquisite" or "superb", +or this, or that, he would not affect a self-depreciation which he did +not feel. That would have been dishonest. If the work were fine, he +knew it and said so. If it were over-praised, he said that too. He +was not imposed upon by flattery, and he hated that and detected it +easily enough. The "violet" incident above has been quoted frequently. +It is quoted here because Mr. Fields was mistaken about +<SPAN CLASS="pagenum">{<A NAME="P131"></A>131}</SPAN> +"the +thick grass." That does not grow on the down. Besides the furze +bushes, there is only close-cropped turf. If he walked through "thick +grass" it may have been on the way to and from the down, perhaps, by +the way of Maiden's Croft. And on the down the poet would have been in +no peril through his short-sightedness. He was a countryman, and knew +every inch of the way. A countryman can tell by the slope of the +ground, by "the lie of the land" under his feet, whether or not the +down is leading him astray. If he is sure-footed, far sight will not +help him much in the dark. But Fields, although a kindly soul, was a +publisher, and he might easily have felt "ridiculous" when kneeling at +the feet of a poet. +</P> + +<P> +A diligent antiquary lived at Freshwater in Tennyson's time. He lived +in Easton Cottage, nearly opposite the road-end of Tennyson's Lane. +His name was Robert Walker, and he was well advanced in age. When I +knew him, in the nineties, he was very deaf, so that talking with him +was tiresome. But he had interesting talk to give, even if he received +none in return. He had been a dealer in antiques, I forget where, but +I remember that he told me he had made and lost two fortunes, and was +sheltering his last years under the shreds of the second. He told me, +too, that he had been offered the curatorship of a well-known museum, +but had declined, preferring retirement in Freshwater. I have a vague +recollection of being shown the correspondence. But, at any rate, the +old man promised to confer new fame on Freshwater by proving that it +<SPAN CLASS="pagenum">{<A NAME="P132"></A>132}</SPAN> +had very ancient fame, indeed, as a harbourage and stage in the +overland route to the tin mines of Cornwall in the time of the +Phoenicians! +</P> + +<P> +His argument was something like this: In the obscure past there were +Phoenicians. So much we grant. They conducted with the world at +large, or with as much of it as was then known, a trade in tin. Strabo +tells us so. Whence came their tin? From Cornwall. And how did they +get to Cornwall? By the Isle of Wight, which seems a roundabout way, +but was not so. The "ships" of the Phoenicians "were little more than +open boats, partly decked, and liable to be swamped by the dash of the +waves over their sides and prows. They were propelled by rowers, +numbering from thirty to fifty; if wind served they stepped a single +mast and hoisted a single sail." They avoided the heavy seas of the +Bay of Biscay, and came by the rivers of France. Up from the +Mediterranean they would proceed by the Rhone to where Lyons is now. +There they would leave their vessels. From there overland to the +Seine, where they had another fleet awaiting them. Then down the Seine +to where Havre, or Barfleur, or Cherbourg stand now, and thence across +the Channel to the Isle of Wight, the nearest front of barbarian +England. +</P> + +<P> +Freshwater was then an island. It is almost an island now. The little +tidal river, Yar, rises within a few yards of the Channel and flows +north, to the Solent. In those days there was probably no beach at +Freshwater Bay; the present beach was formed after modern man had +constructed a causeway +<SPAN CLASS="pagenum">{<A NAME="P133"></A>133}</SPAN> +there. In those days the waters of the +Channel flowed into the Yar, making a shallow estuary sufficient for an +anchorage, where the Phoenician craft could lie while their adventurous +crews were following the Cornish trail, a feat easily performed, +because, in those days, the Isle of Wight was doubtless joined to the +mainland at Hurst Castle. If it were not it should have been, in order +to add interest to the story. +</P> + +<P> +About the beginning of the eighteen-nineties workmen were widening and +lowering the road which skirts Farringford and the Briary, and gives an +entrance to the rear of Weston Manor. They dug so closely into a +Weston hedge that, in going below the subsoil of it, they discovered +the remains of ancient structures containing pottery, ash, charcoal, +lime, enamelled bricks, and so on. Walker declared the remains were +Phoenician, and the site that of a crematorium and a pottery. He cited +evidence which I have not space to record. Being an antiquary he +turned on other antiquaries. He wrote a pamphlet. The Antiquary +magazine took up the case and cited similar discoveries, undoubtedly +Phoenician, in South Devon. Warm arguments for and against the +Phoenician theory were thrown back and forth. And Freshwater laughed. +It was sure, and is sure still, that the anti-Phoenicians had the best +of it, and Neighbour Walker the worst of it. A neighbour would have +the worst of it, of course. But Walker persuaded the Ward of the time +(Granville) to preserve the discoveries and to erect above them two +protecting domes of concrete. +<SPAN CLASS="pagenum">{<A NAME="P134"></A>134}</SPAN> +Walker, I think, had the best of +it, for if he could not prove the remains to have been Phoenician, his +adversaries could not prove them to have been anything else. The +antiquary is dead, and the local cabmen point, with the scorn of their +calling, to "Walker's Pups" in the hedgerow as you drive to Totland or +Alum Bay. +</P> + +<P> +Local prophets, here as elsewhere, may prophesy without excess of +honour. Tennyson himself used to tell an anecdote which had the run of +the village: +</P> + +<P> +"There 's Farringford," said a cabman to a visiting "fare." +</P> + +<P> +"Ah!" responded the latter, "a great man lives there." +</P> + +<P> +"D' ye call him great?" retorted cabby. "He only keeps one man, and +<I>he</I> don't sleep in the house!" +</P> + +<P> +Just as I reach this point in this chapter, there comes to me, in +Hampshire, the news of Lady Ritchie's death. This means the breaking +of almost the last link of that old Island circle. And it means the +vanishing from life of one of the sweetest and dearest old ladies I +have ever known. She was Thackeray's eldest daughter. +</P> + +<P> +When my wife and I left the Island, late in 1918, Lady Ritchie was one +of the last friends we saw. She came to our gate to say good-bye. She +was then over eighty-one. How many of my friends are more than eighty! +The most active youth is ninety-three! He also is an Isle of Wighter. +Lady Ritchie was an Isle of Wighter half of every year. She had first +visited Freshwater with her father +<SPAN CLASS="pagenum">{<A NAME="P135"></A>135}</SPAN> +when she was a child, and her +association with it had never ceased since then. For many years past +she had a little house there. "The Porch" it was called. The colder +half of the year she lived in London, in St. Leonard's Terrace, +Chelsea; the warmer half at "The Porch." In 1918, when Chelsea +Hospital, the home of the red-coated Old Pensioners, was bombed by +German aircraft, she had a narrow escape. Her house faces the hospital +grounds, and every window pane in the front was shattered. She was +sitting in her drawing-room at the time, but was unhurt by the flying +glass and unruffled by the flashing and crashing all about her. She +was then approaching her eighty-first birthday. But ladies of +eighty-one, however unconquerable, do not go through such an experience +without nerve strain. When I saw her again, a few weeks later, she, +for the first time, seemed conscious that age was advancing upon her. +The pleasant little gatherings became fewer; she was much fatigued +after them. But her spirits were as high as ever, and her thought as +kindly. +</P> + +<P> +When the United States entered the war, she came to me with a jubilant +letter from an old friend of hers in New York. Her friend had written, +"I rejoice that you and I are now fighting together, side by side." +</P> + +<P> +"Yes, yes," said Lady Ritchie, reading the letter to me, "think of it! +Two old ladies of eighty fighting shoulder to shoulder!" And +straightway she made a little American flag which she hung at "The +Porch" door, alongside a Union Jack. +</P> + +<SPAN CLASS="pagenum">{<A NAME="P136"></A>136}</SPAN> + +<P> +She was, I think, the last of that once considerable group whose +members always addressed, and alluded to, the first Lord Tennyson as +"Alfred." And she was as full of stories of him as an egg is of meat. +The last time we passed Farringford together, she said: +</P> + +<P> +"I like to think of the expression on Alfred's face when he was told +that a new boy-in-buttons, a country lad whom he had just taken into +service, answered the doorbell one day, and saw a tall, sedate +gentleman standing there. +</P> + +<P> +"'Tell your master that the Prince Consort has called,' he said to the +boy. +</P> + +<P> +"'Oh, crickey!' exclaimed the youngster, who fled to the innermost +parts of the house. +</P> + +<P> +"Somehow, I forget how, the message was conveyed to Alfred, who found +the Prince waiting at the door, still laughing at the boy's +consternation. The Island life was fairly simple in those days." +</P> + +<P> +And what is left of that old life is gracious, kindly, hospitable. In +no place in any part of the earth have I met with greater kindliness +than in Freshwater. That is why I am fond of the West Wight and have +been there so often. I wonder if ever I shall go there again. Once I +crossed the Atlantic to go there and only there. And now, to-day that +gracious lady of the old time has gone, never to return. How kindly +she was, and gentle! What sweet dignity and thoughtfulness, a manner +that was not put on and off like a gown. It was innate. There are few +left in the world like that dear lady. The present generation calls +them old-fashioned. +<SPAN CLASS="pagenum">{<A NAME="P137"></A>137}</SPAN> +Theirs was indeed an old fashion, and the +world is poorer because it does not know how to match it. Their spirit +was not the spirit of the age as we see it at the dawn of the third +decade of the Twentieth Century. Farewell, dear lady, you were +Thackeray's finest work! +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="chap10"></A> + +<SPAN CLASS="pagenum">{<A NAME="P138"></A>138}</SPAN> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +CHAPTER X +</H3> + +<H4 ALIGN="center"> +GLADSTONE +</H4> + +<P> +The enthusiasms and antagonisms set alight by Mr. Gladstone in his long +career flame now, a generation after his death, quite as fiercely as +they did before the Great War. Not that he was a warlike man, except +upon the hustings and in the House. You would think that everybody +could see now that Gladstone was right about the Turks. But Woodrow +Wilson and the ex-Kaiser have not seen so much. They were on the side +of the Turks and Bulgarians. Wilson was so much on their side that he +would not fight them, and by his abstention contributed to the +situation which made the Armenian massacres a continuous entertainment +for Berlin, and isolated Russia from her Allies. And there is Ireland, +of course, Ireland with De Valera instead of with Parnell. And there +is Egypt. And there is India. All of these synonymes for trouble, and +debates in the House. All these troubles to be healed by talk. But +there is no one now who talks so well as Mr. Gladstone. +</P> + +<P> +When Gladstone died, men did not agree about what he had done in his +more than sixty years of public life,—done, that is, for the United +Kingdom +<SPAN CLASS="pagenum">{<A NAME="P139"></A>139}</SPAN> +and the Empire. They do not agree now. What was the +outstanding achievement of his life, the thing, above all, by which +posterity will remember him? Was it his devotion to the freedom of +human kind? Perhaps. But the main question is so difficult to answer +that I shall not attempt the task, not merely because it is difficult, +but mainly because it is not my intention to tread the mazes of British +politics. +</P> + +<P> +The Nineteenth Century, the despised Victorian Age, if you please, was +an age of great men. Some of them seem smaller now than they did +before July, 1914. Bismarck, for example. Bismarck was a liar. +Gladstone was not. And yet he had a theological mind. Gladstone's +stature has not diminished with the shrinking process of time. But +will it diminish? Who can tell? The world salutes his integrity. +Does it salute for integrity and courage any political personage of +to-day? +</P> + +<P> +The world was taught, generation after generation, that the emergency +produces the man. The year 1914 and its six successors brought +emergency to every country, such emergency as no country had ever known +before. But the emergencies did not produce the political men. Only +France produced the political man. Without him, German intrigue would +have overrun the world, even after the Germans fled from France and +Belgium and the East. We would have been smothered by words and +machinations, as northern France and Belgium had been smothered by the +Teutonic cloud-bursts. But there was Clémenceau,—Clémenceau who had +appointed Foch. +</P> + +<SPAN CLASS="pagenum">{<A NAME="P140"></A>140}</SPAN> + +<P> +These two men and the Allied commanders brought victory to +civilisation. If the politicians do not destroy the work and plans, +the "peace" they are making now will endure for a while. If the +politicians, toying with their new doll, the League of Nations, keep +their heads in the clouds, I believe they will come crashing to earth +within ten years, frightened and amazed by a greater and longer war +than has yet been known. They sowed its seeds in the Armistice and at +Versailles. And later when, month after month, they changed their +plans from day to day. +</P> + +<P> +It is sometimes unwise to avoid digressions. No apology is made, or +considered necessary, for this one. +</P> + +<P> +I was speaking of Mr. Gladstone. It was my privilege to see him and +hear him frequently during twenty years. Perhaps it was due to some +defect of nature that I was never much influenced politically by him. +His eloquence was anything you may choose to imagine it, and you would +have admired it, if you could dissociate from it the involved phrases, +the delicate adjustments, the hair-split meanings which might balance +any interpretation that might be put upon them, the contradictions, the +finely-spun arguments which, woven into the texture of his speeches, +would enmesh the unwary,—you would have admired it hugely if you could +have dissociated these things from it. His majorities probably did not +make the effort. He had the magic of making them forget. +</P> + +<P> +He could be, and was, eloquent on any subject, +<SPAN CLASS="pagenum">{<A NAME="P141"></A>141}</SPAN> +and, for that +reason, he could and did unsettle many minds on many themes. He was a +word-spinner of extraordinary skill and charm, and he made multitudes +think they had opinions of their own when their opinions were what he +had taught them. That is one of the gifts of leadership. And it was a +special privilege of Mr. Gladstone's leadership of democracy that he +remained an aristocrat by habit and inclination. Morley's "Life" of +him contains this passage from a privately printed account of Ruskin at +Hawarden: +</P> + +<BR> + +<P> +"Something like a little amicable duel took place at one time between +Ruskin and Mr. G. when Ruskin directly attacked his host as a +'leveller.' 'You see <I>you</I> think one man is as good as another, and +all men equally competent to judge aright on political questions; +whereas I am a believer in an aristocracy.' And straight came the +answer from Mr. Gladstone, 'Oh dear, no! I am nothing of the sort. I +am a firm believer in the aristocratic principle—the rule of the best. +I am an out-and-out <I>inequalitarian</I>,' a confession which Ruskin +treated with intense delight, clapping his hands triumphantly." +</P> + +<BR> + +<P> +Eloquence has not been rated modestly among the arts during some +thousands of years. Whether it has done more for the advancement or +the retardation of man may be a subject for dispute. That it has done +both is unquestioned by those who talk less than they think. It is a +useful accomplishment when the object is to get a body of men to think +and act in unison; it is equally useful in promoting disunion. It is +therefore of most service to politicians +<SPAN CLASS="pagenum">{<A NAME="P142"></A>142}</SPAN> +and preachers, the aim +of these gentlemen being to promote unity for their own causes by +promoting disaffection in and with all other causes. Of all the +statesmen of the nineteenth century, Mr. Gladstone was preëminent in +the promotion of disaffection. I do not know that he uprooted anything +that deserved to remain among the habits or institutions of mankind; I +do not know that he preserved anything that should have been cast upon +the dust heap; I do not know that he originated anything; but I always +think of him as a great opportunist who was sometimes on the right +side, and quite as likely to be on the wrong. But he differed from +other conspicuous opportunists in this: he always wrestled with the +devil of unbelief. Before adopting a policy he would ask himself, "Is +this right?" If he adopted it, you would know that he was convinced of +the righteousness of his cause. That he had converted himself, +convinced himself by his own eloquence, did not make his conviction +less sure, but made it perhaps, more clinching because he had talked +himself into belief. His eloquence, therefore, had effect upon himself +no less than upon others, as Lord Beaconsfield more than implied when, +in a political speech at Knightsbridge, in 1878, he alluded to Mr. +Gladstone as "a sophistical rhetorician, inebriated with the exuberance +of his own verbosity." +</P> + +<P> +If Mr. Gladstone has been credited too much and too often with all the +qualities of a saint, it was, perhaps, because his opponents were +always ready to attribute to him the traits of a devil. In our later +time there has been no such adulation and no +<SPAN CLASS="pagenum">{<A NAME="P143"></A>143}</SPAN> +such hatred as were +poured upon him. And I take it that these excesses were due to his +absorption in things, or subjects, rather than to interest in men. +Individuals did not interest him; causes did. The cause, whatever it +might be, filled the universe. He could not see men, the people were +so conspicuous. +</P> + +<P> +It may have been a fault, it was certainly a characteristic, that when +he had once resolved, he expected his followers to exchange, as quickly +as himself, old ways of thought for new. It did not occur to him until +after the event that he had struck not only the wrong but the unpopular +note in the American Civil War. He saw the thing in one way only, and +he was immensely surprised when he learned that there was another side +to the question, and that it was taken by the country most concerned. +But he did what he could and subsequently made a long and almost abject +confession of error, which might have shaken, if it did not, the +general appreciation of his powers of judgment. It will be said there +was the case of Ireland. To be sure there was the case of Ireland. It +is always with Britain, even if the Irish are not,—as in the war +against Germany. But Mr. Gladstone understood Ireland and the Irish as +little as,—well, as little as the Americans understand them. Lord +Salisbury, on a certain occasion, said that he (Salisbury) had never +seen Mr. Parnell. Almost any one, then, might have repeated to him the +famous injunction of Oxenstiern: "Go forth, my son, and see with how +little wisdom the world is governed." +</P> + +<P> +Lord Salisbury did not know Parnell by sight, and +<SPAN CLASS="pagenum">{<A NAME="P144"></A>144}</SPAN> +he gave +Heligoland to the Kaiser. Neither Parnell nor Heligoland were +important enough in his opinion to justify even visual acquaintance. +The world has suffered for his superior neglect in one particular, +perhaps in both. But if he, or if Gladstone, or if Gladstone and +Salisbury had foreseen what would happen, the world might not have +acted any more wisely than it did. It is always too late to be wise. +Nobody would have believed the oracles; the truth was in opposition to +the world's inclinations. It is usually so. And that is why great men +are shunted to the wrong tracks, and so are "great" men only for their +age and hour; it is why prophets are stoned, and mediocrities arise and +talk, prevailing by sound. Nowadays the eminence of men is fixed by +their capacity for catching votes and the commotion they make in doing +so. +</P> + +<P> +I thought Mr. Gladstone a vindictive old gentleman. It was not the +fashion to think of him in that way. You were supposed to insist upon +his more saintly qualities, but there is some difficulty in associating +attributes of saintship with eminent politicians during their lifetime, +and at the same moment keeping your face straight. The Roman Church, +in its sagacity, defers consideration of saintship until long after the +decease of the candidates for canonisation. Some centuries, indeed, +are required before the purely human element in man may be superseded +by the purely divine, even in cases where the voting majority is heavy. +</P> + +<P> +If Mr. Gladstone were not vindictive, I do not see how he contrived so +successfully to give that +<SPAN CLASS="pagenum">{<A NAME="P145"></A>145}</SPAN> +character to his countenance when he +was not speaking. One does not say when his countenance was in repose. +Repose was unacquainted with his countenance, or with any part of him. +The energy which fully charged his body flowed through his mind in a +restless and surging torrent. And if he were vindictive, I do not see +anything strange, or much that is derogatory in that. A leader of +politics must be genuine, or fall far short of greatness. His +opponents cannot be opposed to him merely in a parliamentary sense. +They may be as genuine as he, but if he hates their acts as evil in +nature and result, he cannot in honesty refrain from distrusting the +men who lead and inspire the acts, though he may pretend as much as he +pleases to do otherwise. His indignation against men and measures does +not cease with the adjournment of the House, or with the close of an +electioneering campaign, unless he is a hypocrite. And if he fail to +pursue his public enemy for the purpose of making him ineffective for +public harm, does he not give a too generous interpretation to public +duty? That a man is to be hated only at certain hours, or when he says +certain things, is conceivable only by the tolerant mass which must +usually be told what to think, and which, nine times out of ten, can be +relied upon to think to order, especially on party matters. A +political party, in any country, is not intended for thinking purposes, +but, like an army, is for fighting purposes. If it's in, it fights to +stay in; if it's out, it fights to get in. It uses speeches and +programmes as military leaders use smoke-screens and gas-discharges, +<SPAN CLASS="pagenum">{<A NAME="P146"></A>146}</SPAN> +to obscure the real operations and confound the enemy. In the +last century we had not learned, although we may have suspected, that +the world must be made safe for hypocrisy. It remained for the +twentieth century to announce this. +</P> + +<P> +A journalist who gets below the surface of things cannot remain a party +man, for the more useful he is to one party the less useful he is to +journalism. Sooner or later, and usually sooner than later, he must +come up against the barbed wire which divides proprietary or editorial +interests from the area of his own convictions. Perhaps the latter are +less important than they seem. But they may be more important. At any +rate, like Touchstone's Audrey, they are his, and if he has a +conscience, which is to be presumed, a conflict between his pen and his +principles is bound to occur, unless his chief, or his employer, is a +paragon of courage. +</P> + +<P> +"I can't afford the truth, as you call it," said an editor-proprietor +one day,—it was over an article about Gladstone. "I must go with my +public." He went with it, but his contributor did not. The latter was +given the choice of resigning or writing. He did both. He wrote his +resignation. How Mr. Gladstone heard of this I do not know, but hear +of it he did. It was to his interest to side with the editor, as he +did politically, but he met later the contumacious subordinate and said +that he was glad to see a junior who stood by his principles and knew +how to do so. +</P> + +<P> +"If I have any advantage over others," said the G.O.M., "it is the +advantage of a long experience +<SPAN CLASS="pagenum">{<A NAME="P147"></A>147}</SPAN> +which has taught me to value the +quality that Cromwell attributed to his soldiers. Oliver said, 'They +make some conscience of what they do.' If we are not ruled by +conscience, we are in anarchy. Good conscience makes for fair fighting +in politics or war." +</P> + +<P> +"Yes, but, Mr. Gladstone, if the opponent <I>does n't</I> fight fairly?" +</P> + +<P> +"'Bear it that the opposed must beware of thee!'" +</P> + +<P> +That is well as far as it goes. But we do not "fight by the book of +arithmetic." Did "the opposed" in Mr. Gladstone's wars beware of him, +or of his England? One does not seem to recall their wariness. Not +even the Mahdi's. Gordon fought with the front door open, so to speak. +Gladstone did not then "make the opposed beware" of his administration, +<I>i.e.</I> England, for the time being. And there were other cases. Is it +only one's own side that must beware of a policy of dilly-dally? The +"ecstatic madman", as Lord Acton, in one of his letters, called Gordon, +gave the world furiously to think. But Gladstone knew what Gordon was +when he sent him out. And it is more difficult now than it was then to +relieve the venerable statesman of responsibility. Gladstone hated +war. But his hatred of it did not make war any the less inevitable or +less necessary. The enemy rejoiced because the G.O.M. hated war. Let +the Pacifists note! +</P> + +<P> +Of the many times when I saw Gladstone at close range, I recall at the +moment a night at the Lyceum while Irving was playing "The Merchant of +Venice." From my seat it was easily possible to observe the +<SPAN CLASS="pagenum">{<A NAME="P148"></A>148}</SPAN> +Grand Old Man in his stall. The eagle eyes had always fascinated me. +It was as interesting to watch his terrific face as to watch Irving. +"Terrific" is not too strong a word. Gladstone's face during the Tubal +scene reflected every emotion of vengeance that forced itself from +Shylock's soul, and during the Trial scene he glared at Antonio with +inquisitorial ferocity while Shylock whetted his knife. It would be +the usual and conventional thing to describe this as a tribute to +Irving's acting, and in support of this to quote Gladstone's +appreciation of that distinguished man, "Shylock is his best, I +think"—but the spectator at a play, if we may take Hamlet's word for +it, is readier to show sympathy with the victim than with the +tormentor; and it was not until after Shylock had whetted his blade +that he became changed from the victorious torturer to the abjectly +tortured man. Up to that point Gladstone's face expressed demoniacal +glee; after it he did not appear to be interested. The psychologists +and the partisans may quarrel over this as they please. I think that +non-partisans who had much opportunity to study the old +parliamentarian's face at close range, amid varying conditions, will +not quarrel over this interpretation, or with the adjective employed. +</P> + +<P> +Take another and a very different instance, when Gladstone was the +central figure of a moving scene. It was a Liberal Conference at +Manchester, in December, 1889. Gladstone had been ill. The press had +reported him seriously ill. It was unlikely, the papers said, that he +could again address a public +<SPAN CLASS="pagenum">{<A NAME="P149"></A>149}</SPAN> +meeting, unlikely that he would +reappear in the political field. But he appeared at Manchester, and +his appearance drew the attention of all Liberal Britain, and a good +share of its representative men in person. The immense hall was +packed. The seats had been removed from the floor to make room for a +greater throng than could otherwise gather. So close was the pressure +that it was impossible to move one's arms, even to raise them. The +audience worked itself, or rather was worked, to a high pitch of +enthusiasm by a skilful organist who played upon them with patriotic +songs and Scottish, Welsh, and English ballads. When the kettle was +boiling merrily over this fire, and the lid rattling up and down, an +old, grey head, world-famous, was seen rising through the +platform-crowd, and the alert and venerable figure which carried it +moved quickly to the front against a whirlwind of cheers. The roar was +like that of a gale-driven sea beating against cliffs. It did not +cease until its idol had raised his hand for silence. When it had +ceased he sat down, and the chairman called the meeting to order. +</P> + +<P> +A few minutes later, the chairman called upon Mr. Gladstone to speak. +The G.O.M. rose to another outburst of welcome, and, upon obtaining +silence, said: "Mr. Chairman, Ladies and Gentlemen." And then the +storm of cheering broke anew. It continued for a quarter of an hour, +gaining constantly in force and volume. It was taken up in the crowded +streets. It was a tempest of sound, within, without. The five words +had started an avalanche! When had those five words, or any five, +unloosed +<SPAN CLASS="pagenum">{<A NAME="P150"></A>150}</SPAN> +such clamour? The voice that uttered them had boomed +through the great hall like the discharges of big guns. The deep, +strong tones, the alertness of motion, the flash of the eagle eyes, +said to the assemblage more than the words. Eighty years? Yes, but +eighty years young, with health, vigour, fighting power undiminished. +The audience could not restrain its joy. Roar upon roar succeeded, +wave upon wave of emotion rolled over the crowd; it was a demonstration +of thanksgiving, of congratulation, of delight. I have never seen or +heard its equal in all the pageants, conventions, progresses, +demonstrations of popular enthusiasm that I have witnessed in many +parts of the world. Above them all this stands alone, unique in +fervour and significance. +</P> + +<P> +"Standing as I do on the verge of four score years"—was the note to +which the audience again responded. The shouting was a personal +tribute, not merely a political one. I cannot remember what the G.O.M. +said in his speech, but I remember that there was scarcely anything of +a specific character concerning political measures or men. Gladstone +was keeping his powder dry. He dealt in generalities. He was always +at his best when so dealing. He lifted his themes to an exalted pitch +and did not wreck himself on details. +</P> + +<P> +It was only his greyness that acknowledged age. His voice was as deep +and rich as ever it had been, his bearing as alert, his movements as +graceful. He seemed to say, "It is impossible to grow old, but, as I +cannot live forever, let us get on with the work in +<SPAN CLASS="pagenum">{<A NAME="P151"></A>151}</SPAN> +hand." His +capacity for believing that the moon is made of green cheese, and, what +was more important, of making others believe it, was boundless. What +was the spell he cast upon his hearers? Even when he was in +Opposition, perhaps because of that, for he was best then, the House of +Commons would be crowded when he spoke. I have seen him at such a time +switch on his green-cheese oratory and hold the House for an hour or +two, tense, expectant, submissive under the spell. When he finished, +great cheering would rise from both sides,—from his followers because +they were charmed, or overwhelmed, and, being of his party, believed in +the green-cheese theory and were ready to eat the cheese; from his +opponents because they too were charmed, or all but overwhelmed, and +for the moment forgot that fealty to their own party should have left +the other side of the House to do the cheering. If a vote could have +been taken when Gladstone ended his speech, the House would have been +unanimous for cheese. But parliamentary procedure permits, or compels, +a leading opponent to reply, and the reply broke the spell and recalled +several hundred Britons to their partisan duties. +</P> + +<P> +It was always amusing to watch Gladstone's face when he came before an +enthusiastic audience either in the outer world or within the House of +Commons. As the cheers of welcome increased, he would look about him +in a puzzled way, as if he were wondering what caused the +demonstration, as if he were asking himself, "What have I done to be +dragged from obscurity?" It has often been said that "he could +<SPAN CLASS="pagenum">{<A NAME="P152"></A>152}</SPAN> +have been a great actor." But he was one. It has also been said that +he would have been a great archbishop. But archbishops in his time led +such tame lives that Mr. Gladstone would have been discontented with +the episcopal lot. It is easy, though, to imagine him cursing +magnificently with bell, book, and candle. He was a great performer. +</P> + +<P> +His detachments were even more remarkable than the attachments of other +men. No subject absorbed him save when he was working on it. That is +another way of saying that his power of concentration was absolutely +under control at all times. He would turn from the subject which he +had dropped for the day to another subject which he would work at for +half an hour, or six weeks, or six years, or a lifetime, and give all +his energies to the task in hand, and yet be ready to concentrate at a +minute's notice on whatever might turn up. They say he had no sense of +humour. Perhaps they mean that he was not witty. Perhaps he did n't +appreciate jokes. It is not always easy to know what "they" mean by a +sense of humour. I have known Gladstone to keep the House of Commons +laughing for a quarter of an hour by sheer exercise of the comic +spirit, although it must be said that he did not often exercise this. +But when he did it, there was purpose in it. The tragedy, that is to +say, the serious business of the hour, was to follow. Seeing Gladstone +in his great moments was like seeing Edwin Booth as Richelieu; you had +similar thrills, smiles, and satisfaction. +</P> + +<P> +Very few persons outside his family knew him really well, no matter how +long they might have +<SPAN CLASS="pagenum">{<A NAME="P153"></A>153}</SPAN> +been associated with him in public work. +All the men who knew him that I knew agreed in one thing, however much +they disagreed in others,—he had the spirit and the manner of command. +A public gathering, a cabinet council, a dinner party were equally his. +It will be remembered that he addressed Queen Victoria as if she were a +public meeting, and she did n't like it. But that illustrates what I +mean when saying that he was not interested in persons but in causes, +or subjects; he was not interested in a dinner party but in what he had +to tell it. The other guests—his hosts, too—might have been +disembodied spirits, but it was he who would "communicate" with them, +not they with him. He would detach himself from them as easily as from +politics. +</P> + +<P> +He made his own "atmosphere", and it was often far removed from +politics. Thus, at the approach of the political crisis of 1886, just +before the House was to vote on his first Home Rule Bill, he was +staying with his wife at Lord Aberdeen's house at Dollis Hill. A +friend of mine, not a political personage, was of the house party, and +he told me how the G.O.M. would drive out from town alone, after dark, +in an open carriage, and forget the fate of governments, especially his +own, although that fate was to be decided within a few hours. +</P> + +<P> +Entering the drawing-room, he said, "While driving out here from the +House last evening I counted twenty-eight omnibuses going in one +direction. To-day being Saturday, I thought the number would be larger +than that, and I estimated thirty-five. I +<SPAN CLASS="pagenum">{<A NAME="P154"></A>154}</SPAN> +counted thirty-six." +And then he discoursed on the increasing business of passenger +transportation in the metropolis. Not a word about politics. +</P> + +<P> +On the following afternoon (Sunday) the members of the Cabinet and +other prominent partisans went out to Dollis Hill for an informal +consultation with the Prime Minister. They were uneasy in their minds. +The vote would be taken next day, and they might find themselves out of +office,—as indeed they did for the six years following. The afternoon +being fine, they walked in the garden and discussed the perils of the +situation, and waited for Mr. Gladstone to summon them, or to come and +join them. They continued to walk and wait. But Mr. Gladstone did not +appear, nor did he summon any one. But the Secretary for Ireland +thought that he might be engaged with the Secretary for Foreign +Affairs, and the Home Secretary thought that he might be with the +Chancellor of the Exchequer. Still Gladstone did not send word, and +the political mountains waited for Mahomet. Concluding that the old +gentleman was fatigued and had gone to his room for a nap, they began +to retreat homeward. They left singly, and by twos and threes, after +some hours of vain waiting. By and by the Gladstones appeared and told +their host that they had had "a charming afternoon." They had strolled +to the garden gate and had stopped to look at the view. The country +road enticed them. They came to a pretty church, and as service was +about to begin, they entered and remained for the benediction. They +had returned slowly, but highly edified. The next day Gladstone +<SPAN CLASS="pagenum">{<A NAME="P155"></A>155}</SPAN> +met his foes and was cast into the cold shades of opposition. +Doubtless he had expected this, but, doubtless, he had not expected to +be cast so deep,—six years' deep. +</P> + +<P> +I remember what a former ally of his had said to me just before the +Manchester Conference: "No, I am not going to Manchester. I don't +agree with Gladstone's Irish policy, but I know that if I were to go to +Manchester I would shout with the rest." Those were days when the +world had sunk far into the morasses of parliamentary talk. All things +were to be settled by talking and voting and pious intentions. A +complacent faith in Democracy was to save the world, if, indeed, the +world were not already saved by it. In English-speaking countries it +had become little short of dishonourable to praise naval and military +valour; and reliance upon force as the defence of a nation was thought +to be unchristian. Democracy was to be shielded by its own virtue. We +have heard that since the Great War, too. It is the old story of an +old dream. Envy, hatred, and malice had departed from the world. +There would be no more cause for great wars. The era of perpetual +peace was about to dawn. Nations were to put their trust in a +parliamentary God, a Deity of Congresses. When every one voted, there +would be a new heaven on a new earth. The credulous invented a new +kind of treason of which any one was accused when he expressed, +publicly, doubts of the sanity of a democracy which could not see that +the voter unprepared to defend his "sacred vote" by arms was risking +his privilege, his goods, his kith and +<SPAN CLASS="pagenum">{<A NAME="P156"></A>156}</SPAN> +kin, was imperilling his +right to live as a freeman. He had put his faith in words. Mr. +Gladstone was the nineteenth century's greatest conjuror with words. +But he was incapable of demanding, as Woodrow Wilson did, that a nation +should be "neutral in thought", while freedom, the very right to think, +was being beaten down. Gladstone would not have blundered like that, +you say. But it was not a blunder, it was a crime. +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="chap11"></A> + +<SPAN CLASS="pagenum">{<A NAME="P157"></A>157}</SPAN> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +CHAPTER XI +</H3> + +<H4 ALIGN="center"> +WHISTLER +</H4> + +<P> +A familiar voice said, "Come!" +</P> + +<P> +It was Whistler's voice. I turned and answered, "All right. Where?" +</P> + +<P> +The slender, dapper figure halted; over the quizzical face a look of +astonishment flashed; the flat-brimmed silk hat lifted perceptibly by +the contortion of an eyebrow; and the immortal monocle dropped into the +right hand as was its habit when punctuating a sentence of its +controller. The monocle was Whistler's question mark, his exclamation +point, his full stop; it served even as parenthesis when occasion +demanded. +</P> + +<P> +"Where," replied Whistler, "where should an honest Londoner go at this +hour but home to dine? Come, then! Escape the awful gaze of the rude +world. We 're blocking Bond Street. Let's call a worthy hansom." +</P> + +<P> +A hansom worthy of its fare was found by searching,—varnished, +resplendent; it bore a striped awning, and its driver was smart and +wore a boutonnière; and its horse shone and arched a proud neck. We +were at Chelsea in ten minutes. We were +<SPAN CLASS="pagenum">{<A NAME="P158"></A>158}</SPAN> +neighbours there. +Stopping the cab at the Tower House, in Tite Street, Whistler alighted, +exclaiming: +</P> + +<P> +"And the painter and his bride said 'come.' We are not out of the +packing cases yet; but come in. I 've something to show you. You must +stay and dine, or I won't show you what it is." +</P> + +<P> +And we mounted to his flat. +</P> + +<P> +Mrs. Whistler knew that I was accustomed to "Jimmie's" ways, and so she +affected no surprise when she met us at the door and learned that I had +come to dinner. She merely said, as if it were all in the day's work: +</P> + +<P> +"We 've just moved in. Pardon the chairs. Let's make a housewarming +of it." +</P> + +<P> +It was easy to "pardon the chairs", for there were none to pardon,—in +the drawing-room to which I was shown. There were only unpacked +packing cases. And I sat on one. Whistler turned on the lights and +then darted into another room from which he returned speedily, showing +his roguish smile and carrying in his hands a bundle of printer's +proofs which he laid beside me on my packing case. Standing over them, +screwing his monocle into his eye, he said: +</P> + +<P> +"There 's the thing I wanted to show you; my <I>magnum opus</I>: 'The Gentle +Art of Making Enemies.' Do you mind looking 'em over, with an eye to +correction, while you wait? My idea 's a brown paper cover like the +'Ten O'Clock.'" +</P> + +<P> +And with that he darted out again, returning immediately with a box of +cigars and a case filled with cigarettes. +</P> + +<SPAN CLASS="pagenum">{<A NAME="P159"></A>159}</SPAN> + +<P> +"Burnt offering to the High Gods," he said. "I go to prepare the +libations." +</P> + +<P> +And he went. +</P> + +<P> +Mrs. Whistler, after a few gracious words, went also, presumably to +give directions for the table. I was left to myself, the packing +cases, the proofs, and the cigars. My watch said seven thirty, and +presently seven forty-five, and, on the heels of that, eight o'clock. +I was interested, but I was also hungry. But neither of the Whistlers +had yet reappeared. Meantime I read on and on, admiring immensely and +chuckling every minute or two over the stupidities, the jealousies, the +ridiculous follies of mankind as revealed in "The Gentle Art." And it +was nine o'clock! Jimmie came in with a fat bundle of newspaper +clippings. +</P> + +<P> +"Read!" he cried. "Some of these should be included, don't you think +so? Hope you are not hungry!" Then he disappeared again. +</P> + +<P> +I was too hungry to smoke. +</P> + +<P> +There were sounds occasionally from beyond the closed door. Although +noncommittal, they were encouraging; they at least indicated human +presence and the probability, in an uncertain future, of food. At nine +forty-five I had reached the end of the proofs, the press clippings, +and almost of patience, when Jimmie came tripping in with pantomimic +action which meant abasement and a plea for mercy. Then said he: +</P> + +<P> +"I fear the Lord hath made me forgetful of time. But there 's +atonement toward. Have you read 'em? Oh, Sheridan, Sheridan Ford, +thou naughty +<SPAN CLASS="pagenum">{<A NAME="P160"></A>160}</SPAN> +one, prepare for doom! Madame, I pray you do the +honours." +</P> + +<P> +And Mrs. Whistler, who had appeared behind him, enchanted me by saying, +"Dinner is served." +</P> + +<P> +It was ten o'clock! The Whistlerian hour. +</P> + +<P> +I do not know what they had been doing. Had they been unpacking china +and linen and chairs, while the maid foraged the neighbouring shops? +Had an unpremeditated feast produced itself by Jimmie's conjuring? Had +Jimmie cooked the dinner while Mrs. Whistler arranged the table with +its dainty ware, and silver, and soft linen, and shaded lights? Or had +they reversed the parts? I shall never know. But there was the +daintiest, most delicious dinner, most charmingly served, and there +were two or three kindly wines, a coffee that the master himself had +prepared, and a soothing <I>liqueur</I> from his beloved Paris. It was a +dinner that more than reconciled one to perishing on a packing case. +And through it all Whistler summed up his philosophy of life and art, +as previously and subsequently he had set it forth elsewhere. We sat +till long after midnight in high session, debating selections from +press clippings which had been showered upon him by his "excellent +Romeike." "Shall I put in this, or omit that? Here 's something too +good to lose!" And so, with what he called "infinite jerriment", +another portion of "The Gentle Art" began to take shape. In its +further progress I had no hand, as I was off to America in a day or +two, and Jimmie needed no aid in goading his solicitors to the pursuit +of Sheridan Ford who had, Whistler +<SPAN CLASS="pagenum">{<A NAME="P161"></A>161}</SPAN> +said, infringed his literary +rights. The pursuit of Sheridan was an epic which aroused more than +nine days' wonder; it led from London to Antwerp, from Antwerp to +Paris, from Paris to New York and back to London again. The +"Extraordinary Piratical Plot" was defeated, the "piratical edition" +was suppressed, and, in the early summer of 1890, there appeared, +published by the graceful, sympathetic, and cordial aid of Mr. William +Heinemann <I>The Gentle Art of Making Enemies as Pleasingly Exemplified +in Many Instances, Wherein the Serious Ones of this Earth, Carefully +Exasperated, Have Been Prettily Spurred On to Unseemliness and +Indiscretion, While Overcome by an Undue Sense of Right</I>. The +dedication was no less characteristic: +</P> + +<P> +"To the rare Few, who, early in Life, have rid Themselves of the +Friendship of the Many, these pathetic Papers are inscribed." +</P> + +<P> +Upon my return from America I found the Whistlers established at Number +21 Cheyne Walk a few steps from my own door. It was not Whistler's +good fortune to live long in any house, at any rate in those years. He +had two years, or something less, at Tower House, and something less, I +think, at Cheyne Walk, and, in April or May, 1892, he removed to Paris. +After that I saw him but seldom, for my wanderings upon the face of the +planet were to increase and multiply. But during the '88-'92 period he +was often in my home. It was his peculiarity and privilege not to come +when he was asked, or expected, but invariably to arrive as a sudden +gift from the gods, and for the most part +<SPAN CLASS="pagenum">{<A NAME="P162"></A>162}</SPAN> +he chose the +Sunday-evening "Smoke Talks" rather than the suppers, because at the +latter he would be more likely to encounter some of "the Serious Ones +of this Earth", already "carefully exasperated", in which case he would +be bored, while at the former he would be sure to meet the choicest +talkers at a late hour. He would drop in at eleven, or at midnight, +and stay till two in the morning with half a dozen congenial beings who +would not only relish his wit, but sparkle with their own, and who were +capable of appreciating him as an artist without requiring explanatory +charts and diagrams. +</P> + +<P> +One such evening we had been talking of Carlyle, who had lived around +the corner in Cheyne Row. Whistler told some pleasant anecdote of him. +</P> + +<P> +"There!" exclaimed Theodore Wores, a disciple of Whistler's, "I always +thought Carlyle was not so black as he 's painted." +</P> + +<P> +Whistler sprang to his feet, and falling back in mock horror, cried, as +he stared at Wores, "<I>Et tu, Brute?</I>" +</P> + +<P> +The room shook with laughter. +</P> + +<P> +On another occasion a well-known critic was laying down the law about +somebody's "technique." He appealed to Whistler for confirmation. +</P> + +<P> +"My dear fellow," said Whistler, "that's an opinion one would wish to +express <I>diffidently</I>." Among his hearers was an artist accustomed to +illustrate in Punch some of the "Things one would wish to express +differently." +</P> + +<P> +You know what Whistler said to the Prince of Wales (afterwards Edward +VII) at an Exhibition +<SPAN CLASS="pagenum">{<A NAME="P163"></A>163}</SPAN> +of the Royal Society of British Artists. +Whistler, recently elected president, was showing the Prince around the +galleries. +</P> + +<P> +"What is the history of your Society?" asked the Prince. +</P> + +<P> +"It has none, Sir; its history begins to-day," was the quick reply. It +fitted like a glove. There were sleepy years behind; and anything you +like later. Whistler stirred up the pools of somnolence. He did not +stir them long, for the British artists of those days, whether or not +they were interested in art, preferred Britons for presidents. I +daresay they were right. +</P> + +<P> +One afternoon he came to my flat with the tall bamboo wand which he +often used, in Chelsea at any rate, instead of a walking stick. He was +of a phenomenal slenderness, which was emphasised by the long wand, and +the long, flat-brimmed hat, and the long, black, tight coat. He had +yellow gloves, and his little soft shoes—his feet were the smallest I +ever saw on a man—were the last word in daintiness. No London maker +could have produced them. Jimmie was always, at all points, +fastidious. He gesticulated more than any Briton, but his +gesticulations were not Parisian, they were Whistlerian. He pointed +dramatically to the ceiling and murmured, "White, all white." +</P> + +<P> +"White." Then to the walls—"All white. And a white you can wash! +Londoners forget that they must live in their houses in winter. All +their colours are dismal, and there 's no sun." +</P> + +<P> +"Apropos?" I was about to enquire. +</P> + +<SPAN CLASS="pagenum">{<A NAME="P164"></A>164}</SPAN> + +<P> +"Didn't you tell me, the other day, that you intended redecorating this +place?" +</P> + +<P> +"Sometime, when my ship comes in." +</P> + +<P> +"It doesn't need a ship. A navy wouldn't do for Cheyne Walk. May I +offer a suggestion?" +</P> + +<P> +"The knowledge of a lifetime," said I, quoting his famous hit at the +Ruskin trial. +</P> + +<P> +"Very well then; I 'll come in." +</P> + +<P> +And he went all around the flat, pointing here and there with his +bamboo wand, and saying, "Such-and-such a colour here, and such a line +there. My dear boy, this is the whole secret,—tone and line. The +good colour—the right one—and the good line—the right one—cost no +more than the wrong. People overlook these things; they forget them, +they ignore them altogether, and then have the misfortune to live. +They don't go mad, because they 're British. And you 'll not, because +you 'll have the right colour and the right line. Come. Let's walk. +I 'm free for the evening. We 'll dine at the Club." +</P> + +<P> +That was Whistler, Whistler the neighbour, the phase of him that I knew +quite as well as any other phase. Later on, when I "did up" my flat, I +remembered the details of his suggestions, and carried them out. The +result was that I had one of the most delightful flats in London. +</P> + +<P> +The appreciation of those who understood warmed his heart. He had had +to fight his way from the beginning against the least imaginative, the +stodgiest, the narrowest, the most unsympathetic criticism, and the +most prejudiced, because the least +<SPAN CLASS="pagenum">{<A NAME="P165"></A>165}</SPAN> +enlightened public (as to art) +in the world. But his fighting was not for his own hand merely; he was +the champion of art as against ignorance, complacent or aggressive. +</P> + +<P> +It is difficult to believe now that for many years in the last century +Whistler's work was opposed with rancour, or bitterly derided. Now the +world salutes his memory as that of a master; then he was called a +coxcomb, a charlatan, an impostor, excepting by "the rare Few" who had +rid themselves of the blighting ignorances of the many. There were +many pigmies who, because they walked on stilts, were thought to be +giants in those days. Their stilts warped, or broke long ago, their +lights have dimmed with the passing years, or their names are +remembered merely as having been targets for Whistler's wit. Had he +not "killed" these men, their existence would have been forgotten. +</P> + +<P> +As I have said already, it was not Whistler the fighter, nor Whistler +the "airy-incomprehensible" whom I saw most frequently in Carlyle +Mansions, but Whistler the neighbour. I do not remember that any one +has ever written of him in that character. He used to drop in on +dreary, rainy evenings when, he said, "the world depressed" him, or +when some happy stroke of fortune had gratified him. Or he would come +on moonlit nights and gaze from my high windows where the views of +Thames were quite remarkable, and drop his fighting mood, his satire, +his butterfly attributes. I had called him "the butterfly with the +sting." The phrase pleased him. "Yes, there you have me," he said. +<SPAN CLASS="pagenum">{<A NAME="P166"></A>166}</SPAN> +But he would drop the sting, and the monocle, and the air of the +sprite, and would be quite human, almost "One of the serious of this +Earth." One night he came jubilantly, and no sooner had he lost +himself in a grandfather's chair by the fireplace, than he said, with a +kind of moan: +</P> + +<P> +"He's gone!" +</P> + +<P> +"Who's gone?" I asked. +</P> + +<P> +"My old friend Thomas Carlyle. He lived with me many a year, and I +sold him to-day for a base thousand pounds." This with a touch of +sadness, permitting the monocle to drop into his right hand, and gazing +reflectively at the fire. Then, with a sudden turn towards me: "The +Mun-eeee-ci-pal Corrrrporration o' Glasgie has purchased it for its +Arrt Museum." The monocle was thrust to the eye again where it seemed +to flash the question, "What do you think of that?" +</P> + +<P> +I thought very well of it, and said something to the effect that it was +a wise city which knew enough to buy such a masterpiece. +</P> + +<P> +"Surprising, is n't it?" said Whistler, and then he told me that a +committee of braw Scots had called at his studio to conduct the +negotiations for Glasgow. His mimicry of the baillies I will not try +to reproduce here. Type cannot present it. Action, expression, +accent, all are lost. It was a delightful imitation, and I shouted +with laughter when Whistler mounted the climax of his story: +</P> + +<P> +"'But Mr. Wheestler,' said one of the baillies, by way of expostulation +over the price I had modestly suggested, 'but Mr. Wheestler, this is a +moderrn +<SPAN CLASS="pagenum">{<A NAME="P167"></A>167}</SPAN> +paainting, an' I ken that moderrn paintings mostly faade.' +</P> + +<P> +"Behold me there," continued Whistler, "the Butterfly Rampant, hotly +retorting, 'Gentlemen; you are mistaken. It is the damnation of modern +paintings that they do <I>not</I> fade!'" +</P> + +<P> +It was about the same time that France bought that other masterpiece, +the portrait of "The Artist's Mother." Whistler came to tell me a few +hours after the transfer to Paris had been arranged. He said quietly, +as if he were touched deeply, +</P> + +<P> +"France gives me honour, and I accept the invitation for Mother. +Mother goes to the Luxembourg, and, after my death, to the Louvre. +They pay her expenses, for what more does the <I>honorarium</I> amount to? +It's only one hundred and twenty pounds. But one cannot sell one's +Mother. She will be glad that I am represented in the Luxembourg, and +later in the Louvre. I am glad it is Mother who will represent me." +</P> + +<P> +And then, probably because he feared that he was dropping into +sentiment, he broke off gaily with a jest about "another ghost who +haunted the pavements of Chelsea", a critic stung to death by the +Butterfly, "the late Harry Q—" still haunting Tite Street. "The late +Harry", it may be said to children of the present hour, was quite as +much alive as Whistler, and occupied—Whistler said "haunted"—the +house which Jimmie had built and which he had lost in bankruptcy. +</P> + +<P> +I had received from a friend in Boston a letter asking if I would +"sound Whistler" about the +<SPAN CLASS="pagenum">{<A NAME="P168"></A>168}</SPAN> +probability of his accepting a +commission for the decoration of some part of the Public Library. The +authorities hesitated about approaching him. They had an idea that his +attitude toward America was antagonistic, they knew he was "touchy"; +they did not wish to submit a proposal, or to invite a suggestion, that +might, ninety-nine chances to one, evoke a scornful reply. He might +tell them he was not a housepainter. "You are a friend of his. Won't +you find out how he would receive a proposal, and advise us how best to +make an approach?" +</P> + +<P> +One day when, like Rosalind, he was in "a coming-on disposition", I +asked, "What is your real attitude towards America?" +</P> + +<P> +"I haven't any," said he. "How can a man have an attitude toward a +continent? Oh, there are the discerning; more of them, perhaps, over +there than here. But there 's no 'public taste' there nor here. There +never was 'public taste' anywhere. There's only the relation of beauty +to the discerning. That's all. But the American mind is not closed. +The English mind is closed and bound. England wants art that tells +stories. I want art that tells of beauty." +</P> + +<P> +"If the discerning in America were to say, 'There's Whistler now, an +American; we wish him to do a great public work'—for instance, a room +in the Boston Library, or something like that,—well, would you accept?" +</P> + +<P> +"Of course! It would be the evidence of discernment that I 've been +waiting for. But there's no chance of it." +</P> + +<SPAN CLASS="pagenum">{<A NAME="P169"></A>169}</SPAN> + +<P> +"Yes, there is; I assure you there is." +</P> + +<P> +"If that's true, I'd really like it. I'd like it immensely." +</P> + +<P> +"Hand on heart?" +</P> + +<P> +"Hand on heart!" +</P> + +<P> +The offer came to him, but, as far as I know, he never carried out the +work. +</P> + +<P> +He left Chelsea soon after that, going to Paris to live. But before +going to Paris he met, at my home, my dearest friend, of whom I shall +write later. My friend is dead now, but he had produced then two +excellent novels and a successful play. Whistler expressed an interest +in him, and he looked in one evening to ask me if he might borrow the +books. I lent them to him. Here is another aspect of his entertaining +character. After he had been some months in Paris, I wrote to him +reminding him of the volumes, which, for certain personal reasons, the +author never permitted to be reprinted. +</P> + +<P> +Fatal error! +</P> + +<P> +Whistler never replied. I never saw him again. But that was Travel's +fault, not mine. I never heard again from Whistler. And he never +returned the books! +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="chap12"></A> + +<SPAN CLASS="pagenum">{<A NAME="P170"></A>170}</SPAN> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +CHAPTER XII +</H3> + +<H4 ALIGN="center"> +HENRY DRUMMOND +</H4> + +<P> +We were smoking churchwarden pipes and telling how Jock This and Sandy +That had made their money. I hope the Free Kirk folk will not be +scandalised by the revelation, especially by that of the churchwardens. +While Drummond lived I concealed this grievous sin, but now that he has +been dead nigh upon a quarter of a century, I think he will fare no +worse for it in heaven, whatever might have been the case in Glasgow in +the early nineties. He wore a velvet smoking jacket, too, and we +toasted our toes before his study fire on one of the worst nights it +has ever been my fortune to see in Scotland or elsewhere. The wind was +lifting roofs and toppling chimneys to the ground, and the rain was +like streams from a thousand fire engines. There was never a better +night for a fireside. +</P> + +<P> +Jock This and Sandy That got into the conversation (not bodily but in +essence) because their experiences illustrated what Professor Drummond +was saying about "getting on in the world." And he was saying these +things because he liked talking other men's shop, not his own. The +point he made was this: it is n't necessary to emigrate in order to +<SPAN CLASS="pagenum">{<A NAME="P171"></A>171}</SPAN> +prosper. He had been talking to a group of young men about this +that very day. He had a way with him when talking to young men. +</P> + +<P> +"How do men get bored?" he asked. "I never get bored. I can be +interested in something always. Time never drags on my hands. But +Jock and Sandy can't get interested unless they are making more money, +so they keep at it all the time. They are lost without their +occupation. Money is a fine thing—to use. If you have n't it, the +man who has it uses you as well as his money. Can we find the way to +make money without becoming its slaves, as almost all men are who make +it?" +</P> + +<P> +In the early nineties Henry Drummond was what they call "one of the +best sellers." Who reads him now? I ask for information. If his +books had been fiction, we could understand that the fashion had +changed in twenty years. But has the fashion changed in God? +</P> + +<P> +Youth used to follow Drummond in troops. When he died more than the +youth of Scotland mourned. But youth does not mourn long. It has in +that respect the advantage of age, which usually makes new friends only +with difficulty; youth has but to summon them, and they come. Drummond +had an immense capacity for friendship. I have said he had a way with +youth; yes, of both sexes and all ages. But his greatest friends were +young men; and his greatest friend of all was D. L. Moody, the +revivalist. +</P> + +<P> +Drummond was saying, as we sat before the fire, drawing clouds from +churchwardens: +</P> + +<SPAN CLASS="pagenum">{<A NAME="P172"></A>172}</SPAN> + +<P> +"I don't believe in old saws, do you? Now there 's: +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +"'Early to bed, and early to rise,<BR> +Make a man healthy, wealthy, and wise.'<BR> +</P> + +<BR> + +<P> +"What nonsense! Healthy, if you like, but how wealthy and how wise is +the manual labourer? +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +"'Bed at dark,<BR> +Up with the lark.'<BR> +</P> + +<BR> + +<P> +"Suppose you work with a night shift? Try bringing up a generation on +these old wives' tales. But they 're merely an example of our British +habit of trying to rule by phrases instead of by ideas." +</P> + +<P> +In the hall around the corner, I thought, they might suspect this sort +of thing as inclining toward heresy. But you never can tell. "One +man," as a proverb-muddled acquaintance of mine used to say, "one man +may lead a horse to water, but another may not look over the fence." +</P> + +<P> +They were still buying Drummond's books in large quantities,—"Natural +Law in the Spiritual World" and "The Greatest Thing in the World." I +liked to think that the slender gentleman with longish hair, who was +sartorially British to the <I>nth</I> power, could write things like that in +the morning and in the evening keep me company with a churchwarden, and +these were very long churchwardens, old style, and we smoked "Glasgow +Mild." Drummond, being a sensible man, wanted, as I say, to talk some +other man's shop. He wanted to talk mine but could not pin me down. +It was his shop I wanted. One of his young men with a literary +<SPAN CLASS="pagenum">{<A NAME="P173"></A>173}</SPAN> +turn wished to go to America and become a journalist. Would I advise? +</P> + +<P> +"Why America?" I enquired mildly. "You have admirable newspapers in +Scotland. Besides, you were saying that 'it is n't necessary to +emigrate in order to prosper.'" +</P> + +<P> +"It's unkind to remind a man of his inconsistencies," said he. +</P> + +<P> +"I would like to save a good Scot, especially if young, from the +mutilations of American journalism. More especially if literary. Tell +him to learn the trade at home first. He 'll be trained more +thoroughly here. There they 'll put him 'on space' to the uttermost +ruin of any literary gift he may have. Space-writing means +word-spinning—the more words the more money, if you have the knack of +escaping the blue pencil. Space-work will knock seven-ways-for-Sunday +any literary turn he may have. American journalism will do that, +anyhow." +</P> + +<P> +"Perhaps I 'd better kill him." +</P> + +<P> +"My dear sir, your American experiences have done you good." +</P> + +<P> +"They put me under gas and injected the spirit." +</P> + +<P> +And with that we heard the clock strike the hour when we should start +for the place where he was to lecture that evening on "The Greater +Gratitude." +</P> + +<BR> + +<P> +Professor Drummond, in "Natural Law in the Spiritual World", had +attempted, as a clerical and friendly critic said, "to treat religion +as a fact of nature, no less solid and capable of scientific analysis +than any other fact which science claims for its +<SPAN CLASS="pagenum">{<A NAME="P174"></A>174}</SPAN> +own." Everybody +read the book, for it was translated into all the European languages. +And everybody read its successor, "The Greatest Thing in the World." +The volumes, which were small, carried the name of their author around +the globe in a large way, for they came from the press in tens of +thousands. I suppose he had a million readers, and the most these knew +about him was that he held the professorship of natural science in the +Free Church College at Glasgow, that he was but little over thirty when +he wrote the little books, and that, for a year, he had disappeared in +the wilds of Africa. He returned to find himself famous, or as some +thought and said, notorious. +</P> + +<P> +He had fluttered the theologians, not flattered them. He was a +theologian himself. His object was to stretch theology to man's size. +The champions of a hundred orthodoxies and heterodoxies chattered +fiercely behind their bulwarks of texts. It seems a very small matter +now, but, after all, it helped us all, for Drummond was a helpful man. +He was a young man's man, and there you have one of the keys to him. +</P> + +<P> +To be a professor of anything in the Free Kirk College might imply that +a man was hampered as to words and views. It was not so in Drummond's +case, at any rate. I have said that he was a theologian; I will add +that he was a geologist. When I knew him, he was famous and forty-two, +and he had recently discovered in Glasgow the remains of a fossil +forest. He had just returned from America, where he had been lecturing +at the Lowell +<SPAN CLASS="pagenum">{<A NAME="P175"></A>175}</SPAN> +Institute, in Boston, on "The Evolution of Man." +How he laughed over his Boston surprise! Of course he knew the Lowell +Institute by name, but he had n't an idea of what it really was. He +had supposed that he would have an audience of two or three dozen old +fogies and a number of short-haired blue-stockings. He found the place +crammed with alert human beings, mostly young, and all enthusiastic. +There was a greater crowd outside, hoping vainly to get in. His +thought was, as he mounted the platform: "My lecture won't do. I must +popularise it. There are no Dryasdusts here." He altered the lecture +as he went along, and when he had finished, he returned to his hotel +and undertook to rewrite all the lectures he had brought from Scotland. +There were no fogies in the throngs that heard him. He had already +been two or three times to America; now he began to understand what it +really was,—the country of the young. +</P> + +<P> +Drummond lived at Number 3 Park Circus, Glasgow. He kept bachelor's +hall there, and kept it very well, indeed. The house was spacious, +"rich not gaudy", the rooms set in carved woods and trophies of ivory, +and everything about them suggesting comfort and agreeable taste. It +did not in the least suggest the abiding place of a theologian, +Scottish or otherwise, and it did not hint at the granite-like hardness +of the houses of some geologists I have known. If I say that we had +jolly evenings there, smoking churchwardens and talking of travel, the +life of cities, and Scottish tales, and New England and Old England, +and the Academy, and books, +<SPAN CLASS="pagenum">{<A NAME="P176"></A>176}</SPAN> +and Gladstone, and Hyde Park, and the +Rocky Mountains, it is only to show that theological-geologists can be +human. Drummond was more than human; he was companionable. He had +always the appearance of ease, but he was a persistent worker. Work +never drove him, though; he held the reins over it and mastered it. If +you had an appointment with him, the time was yours; he had set it +apart; you were not made to feel that there was any pressure. This may +seem a simple thing to do; but, as most men live, it is not. +</P> + +<P> +Drummond's person was tall and slender; he had brown hair; his eyes +were—shall I call them brownish-grey?—his moustache and short side +whiskers inclined to a sandy tint; his voice was pleasing, and he shook +hands with a hearty grip. He attracted you not so much by cordiality +as by sincerity. He went to the point at once. +</P> + +<P> +I was making a study of British municipal policy and administration, +with a view to certain movements in America. Drummond was helpful +daily. He knew the things that had been done and the men who did them; +he knew the practical fellows and the extremists; the men who worked at +reforms and the men who merely talked about them; the originators and +the copyists; the men who were out for politics and party, and the men +who were out for the good they could do. And so I got at results and +saved time and weariness, though not without much weariness and time. +Down narrow, grimy streets, piloted by Bailie This, or Bailie That, or +Superintendent Thus and So, or Overseer of T'other, +<SPAN CLASS="pagenum">{<A NAME="P177"></A>177}</SPAN> +I went by day +and night through the densest, soul-rending parts of Glasgow; up +twisting flights of stairs, through murky alleys and through atrocious +smells; people were shovelled there to live as they could. At every +little distance we would come to spaces where old masonry was being +levelled, and new bright buildings going up; lodging houses, tenements, +model dwellings, bathhouses, feeding places, washing places, drying +places, places where the sunlight and air could enter, could sweep +about,—the municipality was overhauling things. +</P> + +<P> +I would return to Drummond's, rid myself of the everlasting Scotch +mist, have a bath, a nap, a change of clothing, and then tuck my knees +under his mahogany, tell about what I 'd seen, and the drenching, +fatiguing day, and, "as sure as eggs is eggs", his explanations would +bring in Moody. +</P> + +<P> +"That was Moody's doing," he would say; or "Moody started us," or +"Moody collected the money to begin this work, or that," or "Moody +showed us the way." +</P> + +<P> +Moody was "the biggest man I ever knew," he said. +</P> + +<P> +"Then why not talk of him?" +</P> + +<P> +"I 'd like nothing better. Unless you knew him, and knew him at work, +you could n't half appreciate him." I feared I never did. "Well, +then, take him as a manager of men—" and there would begin a run of +anecdote showing that the renowned evangelist was a great organiser, +and would have been as great in the business world, or the political +world, or the military world, had he chosen to enter, as +<SPAN CLASS="pagenum">{<A NAME="P178"></A>178}</SPAN> +he had +been in the hearts of Scotsmen, Englishmen, and Americans. +</P> + +<P> +Moody had discovered Edinburgh, or Edinburgh had discovered Moody; I +was never quite sure which. Anyhow, Moody made Drummond discover +himself and his work in life, and that is the most important discovery +a man can make. Drummond was a Scotsman of the Scots. He was born +near the field of Bannockburn. He came of God-fearing folk, or as he +preferred to say, God-loving. His father was a wealthy merchant, and +meant that his boy should become a minister. But the boy took his +theology without going in for orders. He made science his profession, +and taught theology to scientists and science to theologians. +</P> + +<P> +"I would never be wholly off with the one, nor wholly on with the +other," said he. "I am fond of both. And I believed that I was better +as a geologist and botanist than I could possibly be as a preacher." +</P> + +<P> +When Moody and Sankey came to Scotland, the latter, with his keen +capacity for selecting staff officers, selected Drummond as one of his. +Drummond shared two years of labour with the American revivalists. +They went through England, Scotland, Ireland. Then Moody and Sankey +returned to America, and Drummond returned to his studies, religious +and scientific, gained his professorship, taught his classes, wrote his +books, carried on evangelical work among young men, geologised in +Malta, Africa, and the Rocky Mountains, and found this a good world to +live in if you knew how to work. +</P> + +<P> +We were reviewing his experiences one day. I said: +</P> + +<SPAN CLASS="pagenum">{<A NAME="P179"></A>179}</SPAN> + +<P> +"You have omitted to mention a great advantage that you started with +and have kept." +</P> + +<P> +"What's that?" he asked. +</P> + +<P> +"Money. You never had to work for your living. You were free to +indulge your bent, your theological-evangelical-scientific bent, free +to help your soul and work for the souls of others, without having to +think about bills, or grind your powers for the taskmaster, Debt!" +</P> + +<P> +"Moody had n't a dollar when he began his work in Chicago," said +Drummond. "See what he did!" +</P> + +<P> +"Moody was a genius. He made a business success before he gave himself +to religious work. He had proved his greatest power—the management of +men. You or I would have had to grapple with theology, or geology, or +to swim in ink, once we had started and had been left to ourselves." +</P> + +<P> +"Perhaps." +</P> + +<P> +"No doubt about it. A poor man can be a theologian, or a follower of +science, but he can't be both, and explore the Rocky Mountains and +Darkest Africa, and conduct soup kitchens in Glasgow, and do a +two-years tour with Moody and Sankey." +</P> + +<P> +"That aspect had n't occurred to me. I am glad I was not compelled to +have it occur to me," said Drummond. +</P> + +<P> +"A man needing money and unable to get it is like a machine without +lubricating oil. Almost any man who has done much without money could +have done more with it," I said. +</P> + +<SPAN CLASS="pagenum">{<A NAME="P180"></A>180}</SPAN> + +<P> +"You think so?" +</P> + +<P> +"Are we to think that friction is the best result?" +</P> + +<P> +"No," Drummond answered. +</P> + +<P> +"Some men can't make money because their work does n't run to it, or +they may have the ability, but not the desire, or they may not be able +to afford to make money; you remember Agassiz's case. Perhaps he did +n't need it." +</P> + +<P> +"Money-making is a special faculty," said Drummond. "A man has it or +does n't have it, as he may or may not have a musical ear, an eye for +colour, a delicate sense of smell, and so on. I know moneyed men, and +I daresay you know others, who are duffers outside their special lines. +Most men are duffers outside their special lines." +</P> + +<P> +"The defect of specialised training, eh?" +</P> + +<P> +"Possibly: like over-specialisation in the trades." +</P> + +<P> +"Cutting threads on screws for thirty years," said I. +</P> + +<P> +"Shall we say the same thing of theology? Most men may overtrain in +that." +</P> + +<P> +"They do. Therefore try mixing science with it." +</P> + +<P> +"That must dilute theology. A little too much science, and the +theology becomes watery. But in the Roman Church they dilute the +science." +</P> + +<P> +"Don't you think it depressing to listen to Carnegie's cant about his +intention to die poor?" I asked. "What else could he do? He says +nothing about <I>living</I> as a poor man. Poverty is a 'blessing' that we +all recognise in essays, sermons, and speeches, but we use all the +strength we can to avoid the blessing, and we don't delude the poor +with our +<SPAN CLASS="pagenum">{<A NAME="P181"></A>181}</SPAN> +pretences. All of us like to use money as a force. +Perhaps you would call it a mode of motion." +</P> + +<P> +"That sounds like Moody," said Drummond. "There 's the other side," he +went on, "the deadly monotony of the lives of the average rich folk, +deadly monotony, a weary existence dragged along without any interest +in useful things. Take an interest in things; that is the way to live; +not merely think about them. No man has a right to postpone his life +for the sake of his thoughts. This is a real world, not a think world. +Treat it as a real world—act!" +</P> + +<P> +"That is from your 'Programme of Christianity'," said I. +</P> + +<P> +"Yes. The might of those who build is greater than the might of those +who retard." +</P> + +<P> +We got to talking about socialism. "Its basis," he said, "is +materialism, not man. Herbert Spencer said: 'By no political alchemy +can you get golden conduct out of leaden instincts.' And that's a good +standard for testing politicians. None better." +</P> + +<P> +Drummond was always looking at the bright side of life, illuminating it +with common sense. And he loved a joke as well as anybody. He told +with gusto of the fun he had at the Chicago Exhibition when, one +evening, a dozen Arabs and Turks strode through the grounds, gazing +gravely at the marvels of that western civilisation. +</P> + +<P> +"Marvellous," he repeated. "We shall never see anything like it again. +Nor like those Arabs. If you could have seen them, as they passed from +light to darkness at an exit gate, while, choking +<SPAN CLASS="pagenum">{<A NAME="P182"></A>182}</SPAN> +with laughter, +they removed the sheets and pillow cases, and silk handkerchiefs, and +colored tablecloths which had served them as robes and turbans and +sashes, you would have said they were as marvellous as anything in the +show. And when they wiped the colour from their faces, you would have +recognised several of the most learned professors in America and one +Scotsman with a smudge on his cheek." He roared at the recollection. +</P> + +<P> +He was a professor at twenty-five. And his pupils were university +graduates studying for the ministry. It was part of their duty to +study natural science, to know something about the world they would +preach in and the stupidity of trying to dig science out of Scripture. +Well, Drummond was the man for his work. And besides natural science, +his work was for philanthropy and a rousing, liberalising evangelicism. +At the end of his week in the classroom he would run over to Edinburgh +and hold a religious service with a thousand young men attending +earnestly. +</P> + +<P> +"How do you get into personal touch with your college students?" I +asked him. +</P> + +<P> +"There you touch a tender point," he said. "There is n't enough +personal touch in the colleges of Scotland! We put too much faith in +lectures. Young men come but rarely into personal touch with their +professors. I knew very little of mine. And that's the rule. A man +must break through the routine; the professor must, the student must. +Personal touch would open both of them. Take So-and-So at the +University. He lectures in the +<SPAN CLASS="pagenum">{<A NAME="P183"></A>183}</SPAN> +morning to one hundred and fifty +or two hundred students. In the afternoon to two hundred more. No +personal touch in that; no opportunity for it. Youth can't be taught +in droves, or saved in masses. And yet, if you go in for individual +development, or by small groups, you multiply the work beyond all +possibility. Our system is wrong. It neglects character for the sake +of competition. But what can be done? Effort, individual effort, is +the only thing worth a bawbee. All the rest is formulae." +</P> + +<P> +He said that, as far as his own efforts went, he did what he could, in +every way that he could. The development of personal responsibility +was what he drove at. "That's the aim and end of life. If you don't +base education on it, what is the use of education? Come. We are +responsible for our physical condition. Let's go for a walk!" +</P> + +<P> +Even in Scotland there are moments without rain. Pallid things that +might have been stars peeped through the scudding clouds. We walked +on, with good, easy strides, and talked,—talked of patriotism for one +thing. "We don't have to teach that in Scotland," he said. "We take +it for granted. Every Scot is born with it. And there 's no +immigration in Scotland. We 're luckier than you, in America, where +you have—what is it? A million a year pouring through the steerages? +I asked about that in my visits, but could n't find that you were +teaching patriotism, except by fits and starts, in widely separated +places. They were talking of teaching it there in the schools. What a +funny idea! School is n't the place to acquire +<SPAN CLASS="pagenum">{<A NAME="P184"></A>184}</SPAN> +patriotism. Home +is! But where you have immigration on a huge scale the conditions +differ, I confess." +</P> + +<P> +The talk swung over to Gladstone. Drummond was very friendly with him. +I had said that I thought the G.O.M. a vindictive old gentleman. +Drummond laughed: "Oh, but we worship him. We take him very seriously." +</P> + +<P> +"Yes, and he illustrates your favourite theory about taking an interest +in things." +</P> + +<P> +"Right! He is interested in things—movements, tendencies of thought, +theology, religion, literature. I can't, though, quote him as an +authority on science. But his interest, his active interest in things, +keeps him fresh and young, and out of grooves. He is interested in +things, in masses, nations, races, mountain ranges, literature, not +art—literature above all, theological literature most of all." +</P> + +<P> +"In Home Rule but not in Home Rulers," I interrupted. +</P> + +<P> +"Does not the greater include the less?" +</P> + +<P> +"Sometimes," said I, "but in politics it does not include even what is +set down in black and white. Where would you put Gladstone as compared +with your other hero, Moody? Moody, you say, was the biggest human +being you ever knew." +</P> + +<P> +"I won't retract that. Gladstone throws a greater spell over his +hearers, and, when one meets him, an incomparable fascination. Moody's +influence will last the longer, and so will his work." +</P> + +<P> +This was interesting, to say the least of it. Then we turned home. +</P> + +<P> +Four years later, Drummond died. Only forty-five! +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="chap13"></A> + +<SPAN CLASS="pagenum">{<A NAME="P185"></A>185}</SPAN> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +CHAPTER XIII +</H3> + +<H4 ALIGN="center"> +SIR HENRY IRVING +</H4> + +<P> +Too much is said about the evanescent nature of an actor's fame. Is it +so evanescent? Or are we believing, according to habit, merely what we +have been told? Burbage's fame has lived as long as Queen Elizabeth's, +and that is long enough. Suppose the Great Queen's fame eventually +should chance to live longer than that of her subject, what is there +evanescent about the latter since it has lived already through the +three hundred years which separate us from his death? Betterton's fame +may yet outlive that of the sovereigns under whom he +flourished,—Charles II, William and Mary, and Queen Anne. What reason +have we to suppose that it will not? Betterton's name has been one of +the highest, most honoured names in England for two centuries and a +half. Garrick's fame has lived as long as Doctor Johnson's, and +Garrick had no Boswell. Mrs. Siddons is as well known to-day as, say +George III, and more favourably known. Talma's fame has not been +eclipsed by Napoleon's. Of Rachel we know as much as of the Empress +Josephine. It is easier to tell offhand who was a famous actor one +hundred and fifty years ago than +<SPAN CLASS="pagenum">{<A NAME="P186"></A>186}</SPAN> +to say who was Prime Minister at +the same time. Plunket was a greater orator, by all accounts, than +Gladstone or Canning, Disraeli or Bright. Tell me—without looking him +up in a Book of Reference—who was Plunket? Who were the chancellors +of exchequer during Henry Irving's reign? Who were the leaders of the +House of Commons? How long must fame last to satisfy all reasonable +requirements? The names of how many princes, generals, preachers, +statesmen, survive their deaths a hundred years? +</P> + +<P> +An actor's fame, however short it may be, is long enough. How long has +the fame of Roscius lasted? An actor has more than fame. He has the +public's affection, its money, its applause, its cheers. And he has +these nightly, besides the name that lingers after death. How will you +prove now that Macready's name is less well known than Macaulay's? Are +you safe in asserting that Edmund Kean's name will not add another +century to its credit? Or Kemble's name? What reason is there for +assuming that Byron's will live longer than that? +</P> + +<P> +Even if the art of acting die, and the acted drama with it, overwhelmed +by the cinema, it does not follow that the names and memories of the +great players who have already lived will perish the more quickly. We +may cherish them with a lively curiosity as the eminent practisers of a +lost art, cherish them, in fact, because we are no longer able to +replace them. The cinema could never have given us Sir Henry Irving, +or the Kendals, the Bancrofts, or John Hare, or Edwin Booth, or Joseph +Jefferson, or +<SPAN CLASS="pagenum">{<A NAME="P187"></A>187}</SPAN> +Sir Johnston Forbes-Robertson. No, not if it +unreeled to a million spectators an hour, and its daily receipts +exceeded the transactions at the Bank of England! +</P> + +<P> +It is something to have lived till the second decade of the twentieth +century turns the corner, and find that Irving still glows in the +memory, Irving and the Lyceum nights. That glow makes the generation +which has it richer than the generation which has it not. The Lyceum +with Irving was as different from anything now known to London as was +all Europe before the war. You cannot make the generation that is +pressing on behind understand this. Words cannot do it. Moving +pictures cannot do it. Imagine a motion picture of "To be or not to +be"! +</P> + +<P> +There was once an art of acting. It is used now chiefly by +politicians. But if their parts are more important, their presentation +of them is less interesting than that of Irving and Ellen Terry, and +the others mentioned here. And it is of no importance at all to art. +The politicians will be remembered only for the troubles they bring to +us and to posterity; the actors are still remembered for the enjoyment +they brought. +</P> + +<P> +We who saw Irving through his long reign know what the world lost in +losing him, for we seek through the world and find nothing to take the +place of that sovereign and his achievements, nothing at this day to +suggest them even remotely. The lack is a gap in life. +</P> + +<P> +Will the gap ever be filled again? I doubt it. What chance is there +of filling it? To begin with, +<SPAN CLASS="pagenum">{<A NAME="P188"></A>188}</SPAN> +they tell us every day that public +taste does not run in that direction. It really does not seem to do +so, that is certain. And as the survivors of an older tradition die, +their tradition dies with them. Tradition means more to the theatre +than it means to other callings. Irving died in 1905. His tradition +cannot be revived, that is clear. And it required traditions unbroken +for nearly three hundred years to make the conditions for him. Broken +now, for the first time in three centuries, who shall replace them? +And how? It may never be done. I do not say that it never will be +done, but I do say that all the conditions of modern entertainment are +against it. And the generation which furnishes the majority of the +playgoers of to-day does not care a button. It is their affair, after +all. And they cannot take from us what we have had. +</P> + +<P> +Irving was a kingly possession. He was as much a national figure as +any statesman, or painter, or warrior, or popular personage of his +time. He was a great man, and he worked to noble ends. No one could +be in his presence without the consciousness of being in the presence, +under the spell, if you like, of a great man. If one appreciates him +more since his death, it is because the world is so much the poorer for +his absence. We cannot say: "The King is dead; long live the king." +There is no king. There is not even a pretender. +</P> + +<P> +Irving's declamatory moments were often queer, but his handwriting was +always almost the worst in the world. It was almost as bad as Horace +Greeley's. I have letters from him which I cannot read to-day. +<SPAN CLASS="pagenum">{<A NAME="P189"></A>189}</SPAN> +I have forgotten what they were about and appear to have kept no key to +their mystery. But I connect with them pleasant recollections, for +they never concerned anything that Irving wanted for himself, but +always something that he wanted to do for somebody else,—an invitation +to the play for some distinguished visitor from my own country, a +supper in the Beefsteak Rooms, a Sunday up the river, or something of +the kind. If, at the time, the hieroglyphics were indecipherable and +could be associated with no known subject, I would take the letter to +my neighbour, Bram Stoker, Irving's business manager and <I>Fidus +Achates</I>, and adroitly prevail upon him for a translation. Usually, +though, the letter from Irving would be followed, next post, by one +from Stoker who would say: "The Chief tells me that you have kindly +consented to so-and-so, or will bring So-and-So, or ask This-and-That; +do you mind my suggesting Thus-and-So?" +</P> + +<P> +Stoker's handwriting was almost as cryptic as Irving's, but not quite. +It could be read by due perseverance. And, at the worst, one could +always know who wrote the first letter because Irving's signature was +like a flight of stairs, and Stoker's—well, it was different. Whether +Stoker followed up all the letters of his Chief with a translation I +cannot say, and now that he has followed his Chief Out Beyond there is +no one who can decipher the few remaining letters and so revive in my +memory incidents which I am sure were charming and in every way +delightful. I must get on without the letters. +</P> + +<P> +I saw the beginning and the end of Irving's +<SPAN CLASS="pagenum">{<A NAME="P190"></A>190}</SPAN> +management of the +Lyceum Theatre, and nearly all the brilliant achievements between the +beginning and the end. Management! It was more than a management; it +was an august and splendid reign! It lasted more than twenty years; it +made victorious expeditions to America; it seemed likely to end only +with his life. And it did end only with his life. But the Lyceum, +which he had made his home, which indeed he had made the chief temple +of the drama in the English-speaking world, passed from his control as +the nineteenth century died. He made valiant efforts to restore his +kingdom, but the Fates prevailed against him. He went to Drury Lane +for a while, but it was not <I>his</I> place, not <I>his</I> temple, not the +centre to which <I>he</I> had drawn the world. He reigned now, but did not +govern. He felt the change. Misfortunes had pressed upon him hotfoot. +The splendour and pomp had vanished; he withdrew from London; he became +a king in exile; he died in the provinces. They gave him a stately +funeral in Westminster Abbey. If they had supported him as liberally +in his final years as they had in his prosperous ones, I would not be +inclined to scoff as I do sometimes when the Londoners flatter +themselves on their loyalty to old favourites. And Irving would not +have died, as I think he died, with a broken heart. But he was valiant +and upstanding to the end. +</P> + +<P> +A public loyalty that can last twenty years is indeed marvellous at any +time. The marvel is the more interesting in Irving's case. He served +his public with all his power. They knew that. They +<SPAN CLASS="pagenum">{<A NAME="P191"></A>191}</SPAN> +were +conscious, I suppose, of Irving's limitations, but I am not sure that +he himself was conscious of them. At any rate, his limitations set no +bounds to his endeavours. And he achieved everything,—great fame, +adulation, financial success; he was more honoured than any other actor +of his century; his life was dignified, his death became the man. But +what a marvel it was that this man could have become renowned among +great actors! +</P> + +<P> +He could not conquer his mannerisms, or he did not. The spectators had +to do that, or ignore them. His mannerisms were dropped between the +spectator and the performance like a veil. It was a thin veil, but +none the less a veil. You saw him through the veil. Suddenly the veil +would rise, there would be no mannerism; as suddenly it would fall. +And you heard him through strange obstacles. He could not walk, on the +stage, without frequently strutting. Sometimes he did not talk, on the +stage, without mouthing, marring the King's English. If he had +learned, he had not mastered the elements of his calling. The elements +mastered him. He had not the strength for what are called "sustained +flights" of passion. And yet he would thrill you. There were times +when he thrilled you with the suggestion of his meaning, rather than +with the expression of it. +</P> + +<P> +It is a commonplace of dramatic criticism to assert that there is not, +and that there cannot be, such a thing as intellectual acting, because +acting is concerned wholly with emotions. But Irving proved that what +is impossible for the critics was possible +<SPAN CLASS="pagenum">{<A NAME="P192"></A>192}</SPAN> +for him. There were +three aspects of any character he played which never could escape the +appreciation of an audience: the inner character, his conception of +it—the soul, if you will; the meaning of the man, if you will +not—that was the first aspect. The second was the picturesque aspect. +Irving was always picturesque. He understood the appeal to the eye. +Graceful he could not be, but he was always picturesque and always in +the picture. The third aspect was the dramatic, the action through his +personality. He could and did express every dramatic instant, every +meaning, expressed them somehow,—by flashes of the mind, by movement, +by simple gesture, by accentuation of line, by lights, by shades. It +was acting illuminated by intellect. Whatever he did had behind it a +powerful and searching mind, and you came to regard it for its +operations. And your admiration of him, if you did admire him, was +intellectual rather than emotional. You liked him, or you disliked +him. There was no halfway. I am speaking of him now as an actor, not +as an actor-manager. When I first saw him, I thought him the worst +actor there could be in the world. I was young then, but I had seen +much fine acting, great acting. I had grown almost to manhood under +the great art of Edwin Booth. Hamlet was the first part I saw Irving +play. I suppose that, even then, I knew the lines almost as well as +Irving himself. I thought he was speaking Choctaw, or Yorkshirese. +His vowels confounded him. They confused me. The effect was +distressing. After Hamlet I had seen him, during '79, in revivals of +<SPAN CLASS="pagenum">{<A NAME="P193"></A>193}</SPAN> +"Richelieu" (which did not impress me much), "Charles I" (which +did impress me), "Eugene Aram", "The Bells", and one or two other +parts. It was on November 1, 1879, that he produced "The Merchant of +Venice." This was the first of the "great productions" at the Lyceum +under his management. His reign actually began then, for then he began +fully to exercise his powers. The Tubal scene revealed all Irving's +defects; they stood between his Shylock and my eyes and ears; they +barked at me, jumped at me like grotesque manikins; I sympathised with +the old lady who is reported to have said, after an hour of Irving's +Hamlet: "Does that young man come on often? If he does, I'll go home!" +</P> + +<P> +But there were other moments which denied the Tubal scene altogether. +That was forgotten as if it never had been. Shylock grew under your +eye, inner man and outer man. The presentation of the entire play felt +the magic of the poet-author, the poetic powers of the manager. I +began to understand what Irving was—the actor-manager with a poetic +spirit. +</P> + +<P> +Possibly the full impact of the shock of his strange personality had +worn down its effects by this time. And I had come to know London +better. I had had a year of it, and in that time had heard all there +was to hear about Irving. His name and his doings were talked of +everywhere; the Lyceum, where he had acted several years under +Bateman's management, had become a British institution; and Irving was +as much talked of, everywhere, as the Prince of Wales, +<SPAN CLASS="pagenum">{<A NAME="P194"></A>194}</SPAN> +Mr. +Gladstone, or the weather. Discussion of his mannerisms was inevitable +at any dinner party or afternoon tea. Burlesques of him were frequent, +imitations of him were part of the stock-in-trade of weary comedians +and gifted amateurs. But, in spite of all the skits and all the +laughter, every one respected the man and his work, and knew he was a +genius. +</P> + +<P> +When his Shylock came, the awkwardness of the actor was concealed by +the costume, or what was not so concealed became apparently +characteristic of the Jew. If the Tubal scene showed him almost +tone-bound and muscle-bound, the other scenes found him free of many of +his afflictions. +</P> + +<P> +Actor-manager with the poetic spirit! Those Lyceum nights were quite +Arabian. How fully I realise that as I look back upon them more than +forty years after. The pit nights at the play were the best nights I +ever knew at the play, wherever the pit, but not, it must be +acknowledged, whatever the play. When I ceased to be a pitite, and my +connections with the press thrust me a few feet nearer the footlights, +half the pleasure of theatre-going vanished, never to return. What had +been a joyous zest became plain duty which had to be fulfilled whatever +the conditions. As a pitite one went to the play for the fun of the +thing; as a stallite he went in quest of "copy." As a pitite one had +the pleasure of anticipation. Even the fatigue of waiting hours at the +doors, and going without dinner, had compensations; one knew that at +least he had capacity for endurance. One had, in brief, +<SPAN CLASS="pagenum">{<A NAME="P195"></A>195}</SPAN> +enthusiasm. One does not have enthusiasm in the stalls, or does not +display it. In the pit he lets it loose. There is nothing so +contagious as an expressed enthusiasm for a thing, or against it. And +the pitite is always conscious of the fact that man is a gregarious +animal. The stallite has forgotten this, if ever he knew it. He may +not prefer segregation, but he is the victim of it. The usages are +stronger than his feelings. The pitite's feelings come first. That is +why the pit is important to the London actor, whatever it may be to the +box office. +</P> + +<P> +I have mentioned the first night of Irving's "Merchant of Venice." +That was November 1, 1879. I was in the very front of the crowd that +waited five hours in the old covered passage that led up from the +Strand. There were no <I>queues</I> in those days. Only the strong faced +that struggle at the doors. You stood hours in the swelter, and then +when the bolts were heard thrusting back from their rings, you thrust +yourself back against the crowd, which surged and pressed behind you, +and was pressed again by the less fortunate beings in the distant rear. +The tactical manoeuvres consisted in avoiding the door frame while you +clung to your half-crown and leaned heavily against your neighbour who +was hurled against your ribs. The strategy was to know which half of +the door opened first and directly opposite the hole behind which the +ticket seller stood ready for action. If you lowered your arms you +were helpless in the crowd. The art was to hold them in front of you, +breast high, with your half-crown clenched in your left hand, because +that was +<SPAN CLASS="pagenum">{<A NAME="P196"></A>196}</SPAN> +nearer the box office. If you put your hand in your +pocket, you were lost, the crowd would rush you aside. If you muddled +for change, they roared at you. Your left hand slapped your half-crown +on the ledge, your right snatched the pit-check which slid across to +you; you ran past the ticket collector, shoving the check into his hand +and, making a sharp turn to the left, dashed along the benches until +you came to the middle of the pit, and then went over the tops of +bench-backs until you had captured your place in the centre of the +front row! You had won the best place in the house! A barrier +separated you by half an inch from the last row of the stalls. You +were cheek by jowl with the mighty. You saw the celebrities of London +arrive, you heard them chat; you saw them make others uncomfortable as +they uncomfortably squeezed their way to their seats (for the Lyceum +stalls were set closely) and as they entered your neighbour would tell +you who they were, or you would tell him. +</P> + +<P> +It was in the pit of London's theatres that I first came to know the +London crowd, to understand it, to share its enthusiasms, or the +reverse. It was in the Lyceum pit that I came to know how the crowd +adored Irving, the place Ellen Terry had in its heart, and the place +traditions held in the heart of the pit. Are there such pitites now, I +wonder, as there were thirty and forty years ago? +</P> + +<P> +Those first nights with the first favourites dissolved my American +notions of the British character. I had heard, with the rest of the +outer world, that the British were stolid, phlegmatic, cold, and what +not, +<SPAN CLASS="pagenum">{<A NAME="P197"></A>197}</SPAN> +that they repressed their emotions, that they would not and +could not let themselves go. I was to find what everybody finds, +sooner or later,—that the individual and the mass differ as chalk from +cheese. The pit crowds were not icebergs; they had not the immobility +of mountains. They laughed, they wept, they cheered; they unlocked +their emotions. They were the most sentimental, the most enthusiastic, +the most appreciative crowds I had ever seen. The individual was +dissolved in the mass. He became natural man. The crowds always took +fire from a spark. They received their favourites as if they were +conquering heroes. Irving, their greatest favourite, they received +like a reigning monarch. One has to learn this about the British; +their hearts are big and near their skins, and that is why, as +individuals, they armour them. +</P> + +<P> +If you know how to touch them, they respond with such demonstrations of +devotion, of enthusiasm, of loyalty, as no other race ever equals in +our time. Their loyalty to Irving they expressed with a zeal that was +greater even than their appreciation of his powers, immense as that +appreciation was. They loved the man. He embodied for them another +lofty mark in the records of English achievement. He was great and +would be greater by the integrity, the persistence, the elevation of +his purpose. Such qualities win the English, and deep is the loyalty +with which England rewards them. That, at all events, was true in the +Victorian days. +</P> + +<P> +There was a blessed vision called Ellen Terry, in those far-away Lyceum +nights. Her power was +<SPAN CLASS="pagenum">{<A NAME="P198"></A>198}</SPAN> +charm. And she wielded her power almost +to the end of King Henry's reign. In comedy she was alluring, +audacious, delightful,—as Portia, for instance; as Beatrice; as any +number of arch, graceful, incomparable creatures. In tragedy,—well, +we forgave her the tragedies, her Lady Macbeth, for example. As +Ophelia there was nothing to forgive; as Juliet—here was the exception +to her tragic parts; she was a poet's dream, a fragile, loving, playful +thing enmeshed by fate and borne down to death. Ellen Terry was the +witching consort of Irving's reign. She won half his battle. "A star +danced, and under that" she "was born." When Father Time told her that +she could not play Portia and Beatrice and Juliet any more, half the +attractiveness of the Lyceum was gone, and Irving had to carry the load +alone. +</P> + +<P> +But I have wandered far from the first night of "The Merchant of +Venice." It was a great occasion. "Everybody" was there. To my +gratified eyes the audience was nearly as interesting as the play and +the players. Celebrities were "as plenty as blackberries." Now forty +years have gone, and the celebrities have gone with them. And the +nonentities, too. Of the two thousand or more persons who saw the +performance that night, it may be that not more than fifty survive. +</P> + +<P> +There is no one in these days to rouse us as we were roused in the late +seventies and to the end of the century. The playgoer of to-day is fed +on other stuff, on experiences quite unlike those his predecessors +knew. And he is not fed so well. He is +<SPAN CLASS="pagenum">{<A NAME="P199"></A>199}</SPAN> +growing up, or has grown +up, without standards. All's fish that comes to his net. I wonder +what he would think of Irving if, by miracle, Irving could return to +the Lyceum with undiminished powers, with Ellen Terry as she was in the +eighties, and all the galaxy and circumstance that surrounded them? I +think the playgoer of the present would scarcely notice Irving's +mannerisms of speech, of gesture, of gait, he has seen so many +mannerisms almost equally quaint, heard so much speech that is quite as +queer. What caused Irving's mannerisms? For the life of me I cannot +tell. They were not always with him. They grew upon him with the +seasons. I do not think he affected them. He was too honest, too +sincere for affectations. Besides, he did not need them to attract +attention. And they injured his work. They were not caused by +physical defects. They were entirely absent when he was not acting. +Then his movements and speech were easy, pleasing. His manner had +great dignity. I have said that his mannerisms were not with him in +all characters, nor at all times. Intensity might bring them out. +Declamation did so almost invariably. But they could not be relied +upon either for coming or for going. What caused them? +Self-consciousness perhaps, nervousness possibly. But why should he be +self-conscious or nervous in his own theatre, where he played every +night, and show no trace of either when he spoke at a university, or a +dinner, or a public meeting? Why should he walk naturally and with +ease in Bond Street, and with constraint, as if he were rheumatic, as +Hamlet, at Elsinore, and why +<SPAN CLASS="pagenum">{<A NAME="P200"></A>200}</SPAN> +should he speak with perturbed +vowels when he was in costume, and in easy control of them when in +ordinary dress? The questions are easily asked; they have never been +answered. If I have dwelt upon his peculiarities, it is partly because +no one could ignore them, but mainly because he was so great a man that +we can measure his powers by the obstacles against which he contended. +His peculiarities of speech and motion may have been the causes which +retarded his advancement for so many years. And, by the way, he was +born in Somersetshire. Perhaps it was the Somersetshire dialect that +cropped out at times in his delivery. +</P> + +<P> +Irving's maltreatment of vowels gave much offence to trained ears. I +do not know when I ceased, if ever I did cease, to wince at some of his +pronunciations, but with time they ceased to present themselves as +crimes for scourging, and came to be regarded as misfortunes, as +penalties that must be endured for seeing him and enjoying him. When +all is said, this thought remains,—the Lyceum productions were +immensely satisfying; the beauty of them, the appeal to the eye, the +appropriateness of everything that was painted, or woven, or said, or +done; the groupings, the general and particular movement, whether of +principals or supernumeraries, the tone of the thing, the atmosphere of +it. When was the like known before? When since? +</P> + +<P> +Seeing through the fog of mannerism took me a year. After that, as I +have said, I grew gradually to appreciate him, to admire him. When I +made +<SPAN CLASS="pagenum">{<A NAME="P201"></A>201}</SPAN> +his acquaintance, ten years after first seeing his Hamlet, I +had long passed from the benches of opposition. But even then the +wonder grew. First it had been: how did this man of many mannerisms +ever become an actor and one of the most distinguished actors of his +time? And then it was: how does he escape from carrying his mannerisms +into private life? For he did not carry them there. He was a natural, +unaffected gentleman, distinguished in bearing, courteous, fine in +dignity, without pose. He walked and talked like a human being +accustomed to the best of intellectual society, accustomed, indeed, to +the ruling of men. He was then neither tone-bound nor muscle-bound. +He moved with a certain ease, spoke with exquisite courtesy and quiet, +and did not speak too much. He preferred to listen rather than to +talk. He could—and did—make excellent speeches after dinner, or +before the curtain. They would always have a touch of humour and a +touch of pathos. They would always be in earnest. He never spent +himself on trivial things; he never trifled about anything. +</P> + +<P> +He had a certain air of authority; he had, at any rate, earned the +right to breathe it. Besides, it protected him from bores. It made +him, as a listener, the more gracious by just the suggestion of +deference to an opinion, especially when he had invited the opinion. +He preferred flattering to being flattered. Perhaps discreet flattery +was an instrument that he knew how to employ better than most men. It +may have been on that account that +<SPAN CLASS="pagenum">{<A NAME="P202"></A>202}</SPAN> +when it came his way he did +not care for it. In all things he preferred giving to receiving. +</P> + +<P> +Next to his work he enjoyed hospitality, that is, the exercise of +hospitality. He did not like going out, and very seldom went out to +dinners and receptions, those affairs of which one grows weary in +London, because there are so many of them, and the celebrity is so +often a sacrifice. He enjoyed being the host. This gave him the right +of selection, with the minimum of sacrifice. +</P> + +<P> +And what a host he was! You saw him at his best then, I think, his +Majesty in evening dress, presiding at his table, after the play. You +had seen him crowned and robed and reigning, heard him cheered by his +loyal subjects, the British public, and now you were to sup with him +after the play. His guests—they might be two, or six, or a +dozen—would be shown to a suite of historic rooms upstairs behind the +scenes, the rooms which in the eighteenth century and later had +belonged to The Sublime Society of Beefsteaks. Perhaps, that night, +the play had finished at eleven. The green curtain seldom fell earlier +at the Lyceum. In fifteen or twenty minutes Irving would come in. If +Miss Terry were coming, she would be later. An actress is usually +longer than an actor about "changing." But whether she came, or not, +and she would not always come, the feast would be a memorable one, both +as to company and to dishes, to coffee and cigars and wines. +</P> + +<P> +In those days teetotalism did not stalk over the world, and arrogantly +claim all the virtues, and cry +<SPAN CLASS="pagenum">{<A NAME="P203"></A>203}</SPAN> +tyrannically, "You shall not touch +wine! There are weak souls who cannot drink without drunkenness. To +protect them we shall deprive you!" A lot of kindly feeling has +vanished with the rise of Bolshevism, Syndicalism, and Teetotalism. +Are we coming to a time when Shaving will be forbidden because razors +are dangerous? If there are people who drink to excess, are there none +who eat excessively? Are dyspepsia and indigestion to reduce the world +to a common level of sallowness and pain, to the pangs and palenesses +that prevail in teetotal regions? What has all this to do with Henry +Irving? Nothing, of course, seeing that he died in 1905. But were he +living and in his prime, I can fancy him saying, as many another man is +saying: "No more America for me. They won't let me have a pint of wine +with my dinner. I believe in freedom." +</P> + +<P> +Irving's first nights were famous for their supper parties. These were +not given in the Beefsteak Rooms but on the stage. The stage would be +cleared after the play, and at long tables, at the rear of it, the +guests would help themselves, and stroll about, smoking, talking, +munching chicken sandwiches and salad, and sipping champagne, claret, +or whatever was going. There would be two or three hundred guests, +possibly more, men and women titled and untitled, well known in +politics, science, letters, art, and social leaders, generals, and +admirals, an epitome of that world which is London. It would be one of +the most enjoyable receptions of the season. Wearied with conversation +and +<SPAN CLASS="pagenum">{<A NAME="P204"></A>204}</SPAN> +standing about, the guests would begin to disperse about one +or half-past one in the morning. By two o'clock, usually, nearly all +of them would be gone. Then some one would find a few chairs, and half +a dozen of us would sit in a corner talking, and presently Irving would +join us, and the talk would gain in weight and point. About three +o'clock, I think it was seldom earlier, we would start homeward. +Frequently Irving and I would go together. My hansom would drop him at +the door of his chambers in Grafton Street, and then I would go on to +Chelsea. But whether on first nights, or on other nights, this was our +custom for ten years, a custom broken only by my increasing absences +from London. I might be in New York or Washington, or Rome, but Irving +would know somehow, and we would exchange wires on first nights. On +his first night in the World Beyond, I was farther away than usual. I +was in Chicago. I wondered, when I heard, next morning, that he had +gone, whether he missed the little group that used to foregather with +him, and what hansom had conveyed him after his life's drama, and who +had accompanied him Home. Always he had seemed to me a lonely man. He +was a generous man and a great one. And his fame will last as long as +the English stage retains its fame. +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="chap14"></A> + +<SPAN CLASS="pagenum">{<A NAME="P205"></A>205}</SPAN> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +CHAPTER XIV +</H3> + +<H4 ALIGN="center"> +HENRY M. STANLEY +</H4> + +<P> +Stanley was the most self-contained man imaginable, when he chose to +be. And when he chose to be otherwise, his anger was terrific. He had +a hard face and steely-cold grey eyes. Neither eyes nor face revealed +what he felt, if he wished to conceal feeling. I have seen him quite +unmoved, rock-like, when, after an African expedition, he met devoted +friends, or faced a cheering multitude, or drove his way through an +angry mob. All was one to him if he had to get anything, or go +anywhere, or do anything. None the less he felt, and his feelings were +deep, but he held them in the closest grip. But when his temper blazed +you wanted to call out the engines. He could not tolerate blunderers +and fools; he had no patience with reformers, nor with sentimentalists; +and very little with Emin Pasha, whom he came to regard as possessing +the "mushy" qualities. Perhaps I should say that he had a great deal +of patience with Emin Pasha in view of the fact that Emin, while +willing to be found, did not wish to be "rescued", and so Stanley had +his aches and pains and hardships for his trouble. It is possible to +sympathise with him. +</P> + +<P> +Stanley returned to London in April, 1890, after +<SPAN CLASS="pagenum">{<A NAME="P206"></A>206}</SPAN> +the Emin +Expedition. There were crowds to greet him in the streets, and a big +crowd at the railway station. I went, with an old friend of his, to +meet him at the train. We had special cards to the platform at which +the train would arrive, and were fortunate enough to secure places at +the point where Stanley's saloon carriage stopped. There were about +five hundred holders of similar cards, I should think, and among them +the Baroness Burdett-Coutts, who was a very old friend of Stanley. +When the train pulled in, the privileged five hundred broke ranks with +a rush and a roar and a waving of hats and handkerchiefs. The crowd +beyond the platform barriers took up the cheering. As everybody on the +platform knew the Baroness by sight, a path to Stanley was promptly +cleared for her, and immediately the explorer advanced and shook hands +with the kindly old lady. But he did not smile. He was as grim as a +statue. He lifted his hat two or three times to the crowd, but he +scarcely looked at it. He seemed in no way elated or touched by the +popular greeting, but I suppose he was touched. +</P> + +<P> +As soon as he saw the Baroness, he removed his hat, carrying it in his +left hand, and stepping forward quickly, held out his right. But he +did not speak; nor did she. Her kind old face quivered a little, and +there were tears in her eyes. Perhaps if she had spoken, she would +have shown too much emotion. Stanley, I thought, realised this, and +was silent. But he kept the old lady's hand in his and shook it a +little every instant or so, while he looked out over the mass of faces +beyond. When he recognised +<SPAN CLASS="pagenum">{<A NAME="P207"></A>207}</SPAN> +any one standing near him, he nodded, +but said never a word; he would look again at the venerable lady, and +give her hand another little shake, and then, when all was ready, he +gave her his arm and escorted her to her carriage, her husband +following. The three entered the carriage, and Stanley stood up, +bareheaded, and bowed to the cheering crowd. But never a word spoke he. +</P> + +<P> +Out of the station they drove amid a din of cheering, but still he +maintained his silence. One of them told me afterwards that he was +silent until they reached their door in Stratton Street, Piccadilly. +All the way the crowds cheered. Sometimes, when the roar was unusually +loud, he would lift his hat. Then, when the spectators saw that his +close-cut hair had turned white, they would double their cheers. I +don't know what men think about when they experience such moments. I +have asked many who have had them. They seemed to think that they were +gratified, or puzzled, or stunned. I can imagine Stanley asking +himself: "When can I get out of this?" But his face might have been +the face of a graven image,—say a Sphinx from the sands of North +Africa. +</P> + +<P> +The next time I saw him in public was at St. James' Hall, about a week +later, when he addressed an audience invited by the Emin Pasha Relief +Committee. It was a ribboned and jewelled audience; it was composed of +royalties, nobilities, famous commoners and fighting men, diplomats who +sparkled and bishops who did not, men of letters, men of science and +art, not to mention their radiant ladies, +<SPAN CLASS="pagenum">{<A NAME="P208"></A>208}</SPAN> +an audience which +literally shone, for the affair was an "occasion." The Prince of Wales +(afterward King Edward VII) presided; his Princess and the present King +sat in the front row. If I were to give a list of "among those +present" it would exhaust pages of "Debrett" and "Who's Who", to say +nothing of my own pages. The Emin Pasha Relief Committee had done the +thing handsomely, as well they might, for this was Stanley's first +public appearance since his return from the expedition of which the +world babbled long. It was all in the day's work for him. He never +turned a hair. He was in command of that audience, he told it what he +wished to tell it, quietly, resolutely, and his words went home. They +would have thought he addressed such audiences every night. But he had +spoken in circumstances far more difficult. +</P> + +<P> +At the proper moment he took his manuscript in hand and walked to the +edge of the platform. When the audience had finished its applauding +welcome, he looked about for a reading desk, or a table, on which he +might put his papers. He seemed puzzled, and I daresay he was, that +the committee of the occasion had not provided something of the kind. +The Prince of Wales was quick to perceive his need, and picking up a +small table that stood in front of his own chair, he carried it to +Stanley and placed it in front of him. Then the explorer smiled, +bowed, and thanked the Prince, and, turning to his audience, he fitted +a pair of gold-bowed spectacles before his eyes and plunged at once +into his address. +</P> + +<SPAN CLASS="pagenum">{<A NAME="P209"></A>209}</SPAN> + +<P> +He told simply, directly, without oratorical flourishes, but as a +courageous man to whom dangers were familiar, the story of that awful +march into the heart of Africa. It was a famous march then. The world +has since forgotten it, I daresay, having had, for years, its fill of +deadly suffering. But it is worth remembering as a tale of heroism, +and I am able to repeat here some of the passages which I preserved at +the time. Stairs, and Parke, and Jephson, and Nelson, the surviving +officers of his expedition, were with him on the platform. +</P> + +<BR> + +<P> +The little religion that our Zanzibaris knew, said Stanley, was nothing +more than legendary lore, and in their memories floated dimly a story +of a land that grew darker and darker as you travelled toward the end +of the world, and drew nearer to the place where a great serpent lay +supine, coiled round the whole earth. And the ancients must have +referred to this, where the light is so ghastly, where the woods are +endless, and are so still and solemn and grey, to this oppressive +loneliness amid so much life, this loneliness so chilling to the heart! +And the horror grows darker with their fancies, the cold of early +morning, the comfortless grey of the dawn, the dead white mist, the +ever-dripping tears of the dew, the deluging rains, the appalling +thunder-bursts. When night comes with its thick, palpable darkness, +our Zanzibaris lie cuddled in their little damp huts, they hear the +tempest, the growling of the winds, the grinding of the storm-tossed +trees, the fall of granite, the shock of the trembling earth, the +roaring and rushing as of a mad, overwhelming sea—and then the horror +is intensified. +</P> + +<P> +It may be, next morning when they hear the shrill sounds of the +whistle, and the officers' voices ring +<SPAN CLASS="pagenum">{<A NAME="P210"></A>210}</SPAN> +out in the dawn, and the +blare of the trumpet stirs them to preparation and action, that the +morbid thoughts of the night, and the memories of the terrible dreams, +will be effaced for a time. But when the march has begun once again, +and the files are slowly moving through the woods, they renew their +morbid broodings and ask themselves: "How long is it to last?" +</P> + +<P> +They disappear into the woods by twos and threes and sixes, and, after +the caravan has passed, return to the trail, some to reach Yambruja, +and upset the young officers with their tales of woe, some to stray in +the dark mazes of the forest, hopelessly lost, some to be carved for +the cannibal feast. +</P> + +<P> +Those who remain, committed by fears of greater danger, mechanically +march on, the prey to dread and weakness, the scratch of a thorn, the +puncture of a pointed cane, the bite of an ant, the sting of a wasp. +The smallest thing serves to start an ulcer, which becomes virulent and +eats its way to the bone, and the man dies. +</P> + +<BR> + +<P> +That self-contained man had been the leader in that march of death. +Weeks, months, years of such fighting he had known, fighting not man +but nature, a foe he could not strike in return. Sometimes man and his +weaknesses aided the enemy, jolly black, or surly black fellows packed +with superstitious fears. The voice of the demagogue was loud in +England in those days, but not so loud as it is in these days. Stanley +had been criticised harshly for his "treatment of the natives"; they +were "our black brothers" and all the rest of it; he had even been +criticised for making expeditions at all, since "only by black labour +could expeditions go forward. What is there in it for the blacks?" +There +<SPAN CLASS="pagenum">{<A NAME="P211"></A>211}</SPAN> +were other mushy-minded objections similar to those +employed by pacifists in these days. He had his own way of hitting +back at the mollycoddles. They had been asking what he got out of the +bold adventure. That is always the way. He turned to Stairs and +Parke, Jephson and Nelson, and said quietly to his audience: +</P> + +<BR> + +<P> +These men were volunteers. What did they "get out of it", save the +dangers they sought, the sport which perhaps they found, such +contribution to general and special knowledge as they might make, and +their consciousness of duty performed? They are English gentlemen. +Two of them are officers in the British Army. Mr. Jephson paid a +thousand pounds for the privilege of accompanying the expedition. +Captain Nelson left a comfortable home and the luxuries of civilised +life for the sole purpose of joining in the rescue of one of Gordon's +governors, whom the great soldier's untimely fate had left in a +perilous position in the extreme south of the Soudan. These volunteers +pledged themselves to be loyal and devoted, and I must confess, +assuming that I am a sufficient judge, being naturally jealous of +anything that is not downright and real, that they have redeemed their +pledge in the noblest and completest manner. +</P> + +<P> +Darkest Africa has been to them a fiery furnace, a crucible, and a +question chamber, which they have tried, each of them to the very +depths of their natures. They have borne every trial to which they +have been subjected with more than Spartan, with old-English fortitude, +the fortitude that existed before mawkishness and mock sentiment had +made men maudlin. It is for you who hear me now to do your part toward +recognising the merits of these young gentlemen, or causing them to be +recognised +<SPAN CLASS="pagenum">{<A NAME="P212"></A>212}</SPAN> +by those who have the power to dispense awards +appropriate to noble and thorough and uncalculating performance of duty. +</P> + +<BR> + +<P> +The gossips used to say, as if they took a peculiar pleasure in saying +it, that Stanley did not recognise loyalty in others. But if the +remarks just quoted were not recognition, and handsome recognition, +given, as they were, before the most influential audience that could +have been assembled in London, I do not know what recognition could +possibly be. +</P> + +<P> +Of all my memories of Stanley, the most amusing relates to the +"American Dinner" given in London in his honour. It was not so amusing +at the time, because that was a time of mishap and muddle. Apart from +the fact that the name of America should be associated, not allied as +Mr. Wilson would insist, with a mismanagement which seemed especially +determined to prove false the tradition that Americans have a natural +and trained capacity for getting things done, the thing was a roaring +farce. There was a "Committee", of course, but the Committee had +nothing to do with the arrangements. There were forty "Honorary +Stewards", but I can vouch for the fact that the honorary stewards had +nothing to do with the arrangements. I was one of the forty. The +ebullient zeal of one man who undertook to do everything, and who +welcomed the responsibility, because he was a friend of Stanley, was +responsible for the general wreckage of the elaborate plans which +promised a dinner of ceremony and resulted in an informal collation. I +have always supposed that the kindly gentleman who undertook the whole +<SPAN CLASS="pagenum">{<A NAME="P213"></A>213}</SPAN> +thing, and who was really one of the best fellows going, must +have paid a good share of the cost of this entertainment to his friend +Stanley, and insisted, therefore, upon having his own way, or the +members of the Committee must have shirked their duties, which is n't +likely, considering who they were. +</P> + +<P> +Well, here was an American dinner to Stanley. There were sixteen +speeches, save the mark! And eleven of the speakers were Englishmen. +There must have been at least three hundred and fifty men at the +dinner, and fully one half of them, possibly more, were not Americans. +Not an American dish was served, and the caterers, whoever they were, +did not serve the first course until an hour and a half, or something +like that, after the dinner should have begun. +</P> + +<P> +There was no one to receive the company. The chairman was there, but +most of the guests arrived before he did. There was no reception +committee. The honorary stewards had no badges or other marks to +distinguish them from anybody else, and no searcher for a guide or for +information knew who they were. There was no table plan, no list of +guests. Nobody knew where he was to sit, or who would be his +neighbours. We heard that the printer's forms had collapsed into +horrible "pi" just at the point of going to press. Although, as an +"honorary steward", I arrived a quarter of an hour before the time +announced, I could find on the premises none of my companion +honoraries, nor was any list of them available. I was talking with two +<SPAN CLASS="pagenum">{<A NAME="P214"></A>214}</SPAN> +or three arrivals when a familiar voice behind me asked: "Are we +alone in Africa?" +</P> + +<P> +"It looks like it, Mr. Stanley," said I. "I can't find the huts, or +the bones of the feast, or the chief of the tribe. But you have come +to the rescue, as usual." +</P> + +<P> +Stanley looked amused. "Where's our friend ——? Have you seen him?" +he asked. +</P> + +<P> +I explained what I had heard about the dear fellow's dilemmas, and the +little that I understood of them. +</P> + +<P> +"Then we 'll have to work our passage," Stanley said. "Will it be all +right if I stand here? I 'll have to meet everybody, I suppose. They +won't fear I 'll bite 'em, will they, if there 's no manager to keep me +tied up?" +</P> + +<P> +And so it was to Stanley's good sense and his willingness to enter into +the spirit of the thing that the affair got under weigh. But it was a +long time in arriving anywhere. I saw Whistler put his head in at the +door. I went after him and introduced him to Stanley. "I say," said +Whistler to me, "are you stewarding? I 'm a steward, too. It's all +stew, is n't it? But I don't know what to do, do you? Is there +anything to eat?" +</P> + +<P> +"Not yet," said I. +</P> + +<P> +"B-r-r-r-r-h! What's that?" It sounded like a crash of china in an +adjoining room. +</P> + +<P> +"The end of all things, I should think," said Stanley. "I say, there's +the Duke! No Committee? Well, I 'll receive him." +</P> + +<P> +"The Duke" was the Duke of Teck, the father +<SPAN CLASS="pagenum">{<A NAME="P215"></A>215}</SPAN> +of the present Queen. +In a minute he was followed by another Duke, Sutherland. And there +were Stanley's chief officers, who were to share with him the honours +of the evening. And very soon the rooms were filled. But nobody in +authority appeared, or if appearing, no authority was exercised. For +an hour and a half everybody stood about, accumulating hunger and +getting very tired. And there was no one to say what was to be done, +or when, or how. +</P> + +<P> +At last somebody cried: "Gentlemen, dinner is served. This way, +please, and sit where you like!" +</P> + +<P> +We all cheered at this. +</P> + +<P> +And so the royalties, and the guests of honour, and the orators of the +evening followed the hungriest men who were nearest the doors, walked +rapidly into the dining room, and took the first seats they could find. +The affair had become a picnic. But there was a meal. That was the +important thing. After famishing so long, we had a dinner of sorts. +But there were sixteen speeches to follow! This fact we learned from +the souvenir albums which we found at our plates. In the course of +time the speeches began. +</P> + +<P> +One of them issued, poured, from a New York lawyer who stood in a far +corner, waving his arms and displaying vast expanses of shirt-cuff. He +spread-eagled, he made the eagle scream, he Gods-countried till you +could hear the corn grow. Nothing could stop him. He ran on till he +ran down. And then the Grenadier Guards Band, Dan Godfrey +<SPAN CLASS="pagenum">{<A NAME="P216"></A>216}</SPAN> +conducting, struck up the "Star Spangled Banner." That was another +relief. +</P> + +<P> +The American dinner to Stanley was given in the Portman Rooms in Baker +Street. The Portman Rooms had formerly housed Madame Tussaud's +Waxworks. Perhaps the hall in which we dined had been the Chamber of +Horrors. I suspect it. At any rate, there was a general air of +wonderment as to what might happen next. We would have liked the +affair more if the Committee, or the Manager of All Things, had given +less of his useful attention to souvenir albums and elaborate trophies, +and more attention to the details of the evening. Some one had +designed a large, costly, and elaborate silver shield, on which were to +be depicted events in Stanley's career. It was to be presented with a +flourish of trumpets, that is to say, a speech by the Consul-General. +But the shield was unfinished, although on the spot, and some of the +flourishes had to be omitted. If the table plans were omitted, +somebody had managed to get up a list of guests, at the last minute. +But that was incomplete, too. In that dim English way which robs men +of their first names and puts them down with a single initial, even +Cumberland, the mind reader, who was present, could not have guessed, +without seeing him, that "H. Hunt" was Holman-Hunt, and not Helen, or +Henry; that "H. White" was Henry White, the secretary of our Legation, +and later Ambassador at Rome and Paris, still later the unabashed +deliverer of a pro-German speech, and in the Wilsonic course of events, +a member of the American Delegation +<SPAN CLASS="pagenum">{<A NAME="P217"></A>217}</SPAN> +to the "Peace Conference" of +1918-1919. But so many names were disguised by the poverty of labour +which denied them all connection with their owners that I must now deny +them space on this page. I remember that "B. Harte" was Bret Harte, +that "E. Gosse" meant Edmund Gosse, and I remember that "Prof. John S. +Hopkins of Gilman University", as he appeared in the newspapers of the +following morning, was really Professor Gilman of Johns Hopkins +University. To this day the Briton persists in printing the name of +that university "John S. Hopkins." +</P> + +<P> +We wished to hear the speeches of Stanley and his officers, or, say, +the remarks these gentlemen might make. Not a button did any one care +for the other speeches, and the less we cared, the more they lapsed +into oratory. We knew that Stanley and his men would give us plain +talk over our cigars, and that is what they did. Some of Stanley's +talk that night I can quote from a report that was made at the time. +Did I give the date? It was May 30, 1890. +</P> + +<BR> + +<P> +On a wintry afternoon, in 1867, just twenty-three years ago, I started +from America for Africa, at the imperial command of one of the +dollar-powers of America. I was as ignorant as a babe of the land I +was going to. As I look back upon my stock of resources I am not +unmindful that none could be poorer in what was fitting and necessary, +but I possessed some natural store of good will, fondness for work, and +a wholesome respect for the boss, the employer—the paying power. I +learned down south what they mean by the saying "Root hog, +<SPAN CLASS="pagenum">{<A NAME="P218"></A>218}</SPAN> +or +die!" They mean if you don't work, you shan't eat. It's another form +of the scriptural saying: "In the sweat of thy brow shalt thou eat thy +bread." In the America of my time they understood that. +</P> + +<P> +In Abyssinia I acquired several lessons from English journalists, the +most important being what chaff is, and the second—that black trousers +in the daytime are not suitable. I learned, also, to distinguish good +soldiers from bad, what kind of men made the best officers.... It +takes longer to know an Englishman than to know any other Christian, or +any pagan, that I ever came across. He does n't walk up to you, as the +Yankee does, and pester you with questions about your private business +and your conjugal experiences. He looks at you as if he did not care +whether you lived or died, starved or rotted. Yet if you do him a +little service, he is so grateful that he will remember it. Not +effusive, like a Frenchman, nor gushing like a German, he does not +regard you superciliously, as a Madrileno would, or look upon you as +legitimate prey, as is the custom of the Greeks; but he has the knack +of assuming a profound indifference to your existence. +</P> + +<P> +I was sent to Spain to study Spanish war and politics. I discovered a +defect, and I doubt greatly whether the Spanish leaders have yet become +conscious of that defect. They could not execute the laws. They +lacked the courage to do so. Therefore, the Republic, which could be +sustained only by justice, was impossible. +</P> + +<P> +It was necessary for me to wander further afield, to view cities and +men, great works, great assemblies, many countries—Greece, Egypt, +Palestine, Turkey, Russia, Persia, India, and then, after being well +seasoned with experience, I entered Africa as a leader of men. +According to the rules I was not +<SPAN CLASS="pagenum">{<A NAME="P219"></A>219}</SPAN> +ripe, judging by what I now know +and what less I knew then. I was still young and very rash, +headstrong, I relied too much on force. Fortunately fate was +propitious, I was not prematurely cut off. +</P> + +<P> +Marching eighteen hundred miles into Africa, I had time to think. It +was reflection I needed. Yet I was a dull pupil, and my blood was like +molten lava. I must admit that while with Livingstone I saw no good in +the lands I travelled through. The negro was precisely what he ought +to be—a born pagan, a most unloving and unlovable savage. +Nevertheless, much of what Livingstone expounded was unanswerable. I +attempted to parry what he said by lavish abuse of the natives and +their country. +</P> + +<P> +In 1873 I was back again in Africa, on the opposite side of Africa, and +after the brief Ashantee campaign, returned with a few more experiences. +</P> + +<P> +The beginning of my real African education was in 1875 while sailing +along the shores of the greatest lake in Africa. It came like a +revelation to me. +</P> + +<P> +Now I have shown you what a dull, slow, student I was. You can well +understand how lightly the abuse and chaff of my brother journalists +sit on my mind. For there were even duller and slower folk than I. It +is not one lecture, or one speech, or even a hundred, that will suffice +to infuse a knowledge of the value of Africa into the English mind. It +took ten years for people to believe thoroughly that I did find +Livingstone! +</P> + +<P> +Only a few days ago one of the most prominent men in England said: "I +do not know what you have been doing lately in Africa, Mr. Stanley, but +if you are to lecture I will gladly go to hear you." And so I say that +although in this assembly we may know what is going on in Africa, we +must not suppose that the British public, or the journalism which is +its reflection, is any wiser to-day than in the time of Mungo Park. +</P> + +<BR> + +<SPAN CLASS="pagenum">{<A NAME="P220"></A>220}</SPAN> + +<P> +Rather neat scoring, I think. The world does not change much. +</P> + +<P> +Stanley married and went into Parliament. One day I thought it might +be interesting to see him try conclusions with an election crowd in +London. He was contesting on the Surrey side of the river. I think it +was in Lambeth. He got a new experience. The crowd heckled him, and +tried to shout him down, just for the mere joy of living. But they +could n't silence him. While they bellowed, he would stand calmly and +look at them. After some minutes of this kind of thing, he managed to +be heard. +</P> + +<P> +"Is this my meeting or yours?" he asked. They were quite certain the +meeting was their own. The interruptions were numerous. I was +thinking what he would do with a mutinous lot in Darkest Africa, and +presently he told them that the savages compared pretty favourably with +"their white brothers in London"! The crowd yelled, but they couldn't +disconcert him. He finished his speech; cut it short, no doubt, but +did n't appear to do so. Only the persons near him could hear what he +said, there was so much noise. As he left the meeting, the gentle +souls began to throw things. I saw them trying to overturn his +carriage. His wife was in it! +</P> + +<P> +Stones flew. But Stanley lived to fight again. Knowing him, I think I +know how angry he really was. +</P> + +<P> +"But," said he when we met again, "I longed for a few seconds of +Africa! My education is n't completed yet. I am learning about +British +<SPAN CLASS="pagenum">{<A NAME="P221"></A>221}</SPAN> +electioneering crowds. When they shout: 'Fair play, fair +play', they mean 'Fair play for our side.' Come now, that's a fact." +</P> + +<P> +It is unnecessary that I should incriminate myself. +</P> + +<P> +I never could see what satisfaction Stanley got from being a member of +Parliament. In his heart he would have been glad, once or twice, to +lead them all, Government and Opposition and their followers, into an +African jungle—and lose them. +</P> + +<P> +I see I have not mentioned that he became Sir Henry. But I knew him as +Mr. +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="chap15"></A> + +<SPAN CLASS="pagenum">{<A NAME="P222"></A>222}</SPAN> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +CHAPTER XV +</H3> + +<H4 ALIGN="center"> +GEORGE MEREDITH +</H4> + +<P> +A bright, warm, summer morning. I was working under pressure in my +study in Cheyne Walk on an article which had to be finished that +afternoon. Saturdays were my busiest days and this was Saturday, and +only morning. The maid rapped at the study door and said, "Mr. John +Burns to see you, Sir." +</P> + +<P> +In came Burns, preceded by his great voice and hearty laugh, making +apology for interruption. "Can you drop the work and come with me?" +said he. +</P> + +<P> +"Impossible," said I. "Sorry, but—" +</P> + +<P> +"Well, I 'm off to George Meredith's," said he, laying a post card on +my writing table. The post card was from Meredith, who appointed the +meeting, and added: +</P> + +<P> +"We 'll have a fine Radical day. Bring your friend." +</P> + +<P> +"You are the friend," said Burns. +</P> + +<P> +"I 'll come," said I. "Give me a quarter of an hour, and I 'll finish +this article somehow." And so I made sacrifice to one of my gods, the +god that dwelt on the sunny slope of Box Hill. The article +<SPAN CLASS="pagenum">{<A NAME="P223"></A>223}</SPAN> +was +brought to a quicker turn than it had dreamed of, a hansom was called; +we rushed to Clapham Junction and took train for Burford Bridge. +</P> + +<P> +It was more than a quarter of a century ago, but it seems like +yesterday. And yet, though it was more than a quarter of a century +ago, the Great Dock Strike had seemed so long before that it was almost +forgotten. In the dock strike, that is to say, in 1889, I had made +John Burns' acquaintance. He says I "discovered" him, discovered the +real John Burns under the red-hot agitator who was expected to lead a +hundred thousand men to incendiarism and the sack of London. +</P> + +<P> +I do not remember the year which brought this Meredith day to our +spinning world. But it must have been in the early nineties, and Burns +on the London County Council, and perhaps for a session or so a member +of Parliament. The date, however, does n't matter. If it were not +1892 it may have been 1893 or '94. Let's get on. +</P> + +<P> +Neither Burns nor I had ever met George Meredith. Burns and he had had +some correspondence which resulted in the post card and our expedition +to Box Hill that blossomy, fragrant morning when the England of dreams +lay all about us, and the stream that ran by Burford Bridge "babbled o' +green fields" and played with flowers. +</P> + +<P> +We arrived at the little station in Surrey about noon. Whatever it may +be now, it was then a little station. We strode off to Box Hill, and +turned a corner, and there, trapping the sunshine, was Flint Cottage, +George Meredith's home, at the bottom of +<SPAN CLASS="pagenum">{<A NAME="P224"></A>224}</SPAN> +a sloping garden running +over with roses. Roses, roses everywhere, and higher in the sloping +garden, overlooking a valley that the gods had made for poets to dream +in, was a little chalet where Meredith wrote, and slept, and had the +muses to wait on him. To the chalet a gardener directed us when we +asked for his master. We climbed the path. The chalet door stood +partly open. Burns knocked on a rose trellis. "Come in!" cried a +voice. In we went. There was George Meredith, in a Morris chair, with +a rug over his knees, and sheets and sheets and sheets of manuscript +over the rug. If he were to rise, the whole mountain of paper would +tumble helter-skelter to the floor. +</P> + +<P> +"No! don't move," said my companion. "I'm John Burns." Then he +introduced me. +</P> + +<P> +"I knew you, John Burns, I knew you. Your photographs are like you. +The voice is what I imagined it would be. Sit, gentlemen, sit. There, +by the window. No better view in England, I really think. I comfort +myself with it. It is good enough for parliament-men and our +scribbling kind," said Meredith, smiling roguishly at me. The grasp of +his hand was firm and generous. His voice had rich, deep tones. But +he looked a fragile being. +</P> + +<P> +"Like the schoolboy, I can say, 'This is n't writin', it's readin','" +and he pointed to the manuscript. +</P> + +<P> +"Chapman and Hall-ing," I ventured to say. +</P> + +<P> +"That's right," said Meredith, "you see the slave bearing his burden." +</P> + +<P> +If John Burns' photographs were faithful, so were Meredith's, or so was +the one with which I had been familiar. +<SPAN CLASS="pagenum">{<A NAME="P225"></A>225}</SPAN> +His beard and hair were grey, +almost white then. He looked older than he was. He was only +sixty-five. Only sixty-five, and I thought him old! He lived to be +eighty-one. I liked his voice. I had been told that it was high and +shrill. It was nothing of the kind. It was mellow, clear, and his +speech was scholar-like, with quaint shafts of wit. They used to tell +of his "artificial talk." I heard none of it. He was as natural as +his roses. But there might be prickly thorns under the rose. +</P> + +<P> +Meredith gathered his papers and put them aside. He leaned back in his +big, comfortable chair, and said "now let's talk" as another man might +say "let's have a drink." And we three sat, and talked and remade the +world like a lot of youngsters. We knew better, each of us, knew that +the dreams we were indulging would never be realised, that probably we +would never call them up and look at them again—we would n't +dare—they would be buried with us, no doubt. Some other youngsters +might dream similar dreams by and by. No doubt they would. But to-day +was to-day. And to-morrow I would be twice as old as Meredith, though +half his years, and know in all my body half as much as his little +finger knew. That very day he was the youngest of the three. He +bubbled quietly, like champagne in a hollow-stemmed glass. The +conversation capered. We might have been lads out of school, and we +ragged the authorities. Meredith was the youngest and gayest of the +three, Burns the most enthusiastic, and I came dragging on with not +exactly timorous whoop-hurrahs! And it was +<SPAN CLASS="pagenum">{<A NAME="P226"></A>226}</SPAN> +June, and high noon, +with roses everywhere, and still more roses, and the humming of bees. +And the big world was far away—a million miles. +</P> + +<P> +It was "a fine Radical day" no doubt, in more than the limited +political sense. Burns was the only political Radical of the three. +He called me "a crusted Tory." I don't remember what he called George +Meredith, who left us guessing, I think, as some of his printed pages +were likely to do. Anyway, we did n't talk books. Life was better. +And there was a lot of life to talk about yet, at the end of an age. +Besides, our host was pressing us to stay to luncheon. +</P> + +<P> +Down the garden path we strolled, still talking. Meredith said, as we +seated ourselves at table: "I 'm here alone at present: you come like a +rescuing expedition. This talk is a shower on parched land." After +luncheon the talk went on, under trees, and tea-time had come before we +knew it. After tea a walk over Box Hill. +</P> + +<P> +You will have gathered by this time that the talking was not about +Meredith or his books. He guided us from those high pastures where we +would have liked to browse to the lower marshes where we might stumble +as we pleased over politics, Home Rule and no rule, free trade and +protection, dear food and cheap food, municipal administration, the +housing of the poor, socialism, and all those everlasting puzzles which +England is discussing now as she discussed them thirty years ago. They +were very dear to John Burns. They seemed interesting to Meredith. He +enjoyed talking another man's +<SPAN CLASS="pagenum">{<A NAME="P227"></A>227}</SPAN> +shop; at any rate, he enjoyed +talking Burns' shop so much that the talk scarcely touched on books. +It may be mentioned at this point that John Burns, even at that time, +owned probably more books than Meredith, and knew the insides of them. +Whether or not he knew the insides of more books than did Meredith is +another matter. Meredith, you know, was a publisher's reader. +</P> + +<P> +I did manage, while we were at tea, to get in a word about "One of Our +Conquerors" and its tribute to good wine, certain passages which could +have been written only by a connoisseur. +</P> + +<P> +"Ah, I 'm that; yes, I 'm that! Burns would n't appreciate that, but +you do." And I spoke of a certain description in the same book, a view +from London Bridge, westward, in the late afternoon. And the man +chasing his hat in a high wind. I said I had taken an American friend +there recently, and he had had to chase his hat, and then, for solace, +we had gone to the restaurant in the city, the one described by +Meredith, and had had food, and cracked a bottle of the delicate wine +which, with tender ritual, had been opened and served to the two men in +the story. +</P> + +<P> +"And," said I, "although you disguised the restaurant and the label, I +will not disguise from you the fact that my friend is also a +connoisseur of the bright and beautiful, the American celebrator of +choice things and moments—Thomas Bailey Aldrich—and that he rose at a +point in our simple feast and said, with reverence: 'I salute George +Meredith.'" +</P> + +<SPAN CLASS="pagenum">{<A NAME="P228"></A>228}</SPAN> + +<P> +Meredith's eyes twinkled. He rose, lifted his straw hat, bowed, and +said: "The Author of 'Marjorie Daw', I am your obliged and humble +servant." +</P> + +<P> +And so the honours were even between Aldrich and himself. +</P> + +<P> +Burns put in his word here. "We must go for the five-thirty train. +Good-bye, Mr. Meredith, we have had the—" +</P> + +<P> +"No, no, John Burns! It 's not to be heard of! Both of you are to +stay for dinner! Mark you that, John Burns. Never, never shall I +forgive you two if you leave a poor lone man of ink without dining at +his table. The thing is forbidden, forbidden absolutely, John Burns." +</P> + +<P> +Is it strange then that we stayed for dinner, having already taken +luncheon, tea, and a stroll with the magician of Box Hill? Not only +did we stay, but we stayed till nearly midnight, having just time to +catch the last train for London. +</P> + +<P> +And this is a very pleasant part of my recollections of the day: +</P> + +<P> +Our host, when he had shown us to the dining room, excused himself for +a moment, lighted a candle, and, opening a door in a corner of the +room, descended to the cellar. In two or three minutes he reappeared, +his delicate face lighted by the candle which he held in his left hand +directly behind a dusty half-bottle of wine, through which the light +shone softly in a ruby glow. One saw first the wine, then the light, +then the face, as ascending the stairs they entered from below, +mounting slowly with +<SPAN CLASS="pagenum">{<A NAME="P229"></A>229}</SPAN> +exquisite care lest the wine be shaken. +Slowly, and with great care, Meredith wrapped a napkin around the +bottle, and drew the cork, placing the bottle at my plate and saying, +with the most gracious, old-world courtesy: "For one who knows and +appreciates, from one who appreciates and knows." +</P> + +<P> +There was "approbation from Sir Hubert Stanley!" +</P> + +<P> +"John Burns is a teetotaller, they say," added Meredith. "Of such is +not the kingdom of my heaven. Burns says you discovered him. What do +you think of your discovery? Tell me how it came about." +</P> + +<P> +"Burns does not embody my idea of a modest man," said I. "As for that, +there seems to be some doubt, nowadays, whether modest men should be +permitted to live. What does Gilbert say: +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +"'You must stir it, and stump it<BR> +And blow your own trumpet,<BR> +Or, bless me, you have n't a chance!'<BR> +</P> + +<BR> + +<P> +"Well, I came upon Burns first, in '89, when he had London scared (of +course London would n't confess that it was scared but it was) and he +was 'stumping it' at the dock gates, and from cart-tails on Tower Hill, +and was listened to by thousands and tens of thousands of hungry men, +and their wives, and youngsters—" +</P> + +<P> +"'Agitating the dregs of London', the newspapers put it," said Meredith. +</P> + +<P> +"All for sixpence an hour," said Burns. +</P> + +<P> +"You have the floor!" said Meredith to me. +</P> + +<SPAN CLASS="pagenum">{<A NAME="P230"></A>230}</SPAN> + +<P> +"I told you he is not accurately described as a modest man. This is +<I>my</I> story," I continued, "the story as I see it. London had heard of +him—when was it?—in '86, or so, when he led a crowd of East Enders to +Trafalgar Square where mass meetings were not permitted, and the crowd +got out of hand and smashed plate-glass windows, and Burns got his head +broken, or nearly so, and went to gaol." +</P> + +<P> +"'Serve the brute right!' I remember the run of thoughtful British +opinion," put in Meredith. +</P> + +<P> +"I was not in England at the time, but I remember the verdict," I said. +</P> + +<P> +"The trouble was," said Burns, "I hadn't been introduced to the +authorities. There I touched a fundamental British prejudice. The +affair secured me the introduction, and opened Trafalgar Square—" +</P> + +<P> +"To the mob," said Meredith. +</P> + +<P> +"To mass meetings," said Burns. +</P> + +<P> +"I am playing British chorus," was Meredith's rejoinder. +</P> + +<P> +"Second chapter," said I. "There came the year of the Great Dock +Strike. The casual labourer swarmed out of chaos, and struck for a +sane, not to say 'civilised' method of hiring, and sixpence an hour." +</P> + +<P> +"And the dock companies, or whatever they were, were not sane, and, +also, they had n't a sixpence, they said"—thus Meredith. +</P> + +<P> +"Which was absurd, Mr. Meredith, as you are on the point of adding," I +went on. "We don't know how many thousands of men were thrown out +<SPAN CLASS="pagenum">{<A NAME="P231"></A>231}</SPAN> +of work. Nobody knows to this day, but here is what I am coming +at; there were thousands of them, and there was great suffering in +their families. Well, when I first saw Burns he was organising +kitchens, and feeding women and children, and making ten speeches every +twenty-four hours, and sleeping an hour or two when he could find time +and a place to lie down. Some nights he did not sleep at all. The +night before I met him he slept four hours in his clothes and boots. +In three days he made thirty-six speeches; in three weeks he averaged +ten speeches a day, out of doors. He is hoarse still, no wonder. +</P> + +<P> +"I lost sight of him for a bit, and found him again on Tower Hill, +speaking to a big crowd. His platform was a dray. When he stopped +speaking and jumped down from the dray, I introduced myself to him, +said I was mightily interested, and that I wanted to interview him. +</P> + +<P> +"'All right,' said he; 'begin!' +</P> + +<P> +"If he were not modest, I was. 'Not here,' said I, 'let's go where we +can talk in quiet.' So I tucked him into a hansom and, followed by a +yelling crowd which we soon left out of sight, we drove to a club of +mine in the West End, where we had a long talk. The immediate results +were—oh, well, some articles in which I tried to show the world the +real John Burns." +</P> + +<P> +"That was the discovery?" asked Meredith. +</P> + +<P> +"Burns calls it so. He was no more modest about being discovered then +than he is now. He has a way of telling you straight what he thinks, +or what he 's at, or of telling you that he won't tell you." +</P> + +<SPAN CLASS="pagenum">{<A NAME="P232"></A>232}</SPAN> + +<P> +"I 've noticed that. John Burns, are you under any delusions about +popularity? I think you are not." +</P> + +<P> +"I 'm not," said Burns. "When the crowds are cheering their loudest, I +am asking myself how soon they will hang my carcass on the outer walls." +</P> + +<P> +"A cheering and useful inquiry," observed Meredith. "My impression is +that you have a long course to cover. But leaders of the people are +wisest when they remember that there <I>are</I> outer walls for the hanging +of carcasses." +</P> + +<P> +"The confessions of Radicals strengthen the soul," said I. +</P> + +<P> +"These are not confessions; they are articles of faith," exclaimed +Burns. +</P> + +<P> +I intimated that my faith in a political sense was as a grain of +mustard seed, human nature being what it was, and political stupidity +unconquerable. Gladstone being mentioned by our host, I asked Burns to +tell his Gladstone story, that is, what the G.O.M. said to him, and +what he said to the G.O.M. at their first meeting. +</P> + +<P> +"It was in the lobby of the House of Commons," Burns explained, "soon +after my election. You know I was not what might be called a +worshipper of that wonderful man. A bit too independent for his +liking, perhaps." +</P> + +<P> +"And the only thing he would dislike, perhaps," said Meredith, smiling. +</P> + +<P> +"Well, you know. I was in the lobby, talking with a front-bench +Liberal when the great man passed. The member with whom I was talking +<SPAN CLASS="pagenum">{<A NAME="P233"></A>233}</SPAN> +took me up to him and presented me. The G.O.M. bowed, and we +shook hands. He said: +</P> + +<P> +"'It gives me pleasure, Mr. Burns, to see you here, to welcome you to +the House of Commons.' +</P> + +<P> +"I replied, 'Believe me, sir, my pleasure is equal to your own!' +</P> + +<P> +"A hit, a palpable hit!" cried Meredith. "I can see Gladstone drawing +in his horns." +</P> + +<P> +"He stiffened a bit, and we went our ways. That is all there is of the +story," added Burns. +</P> + +<P> +"The one about the docker and the matches is not bad," said I. +</P> + +<P> +"Let me have it," begged Meredith. +</P> + +<P> +"At one of my meetings near the dock gates, a fellow shouted: 'Burn the +docks; break in and burn the docks!' He interrupted me two or three +times with that cry. The crowd was sullen. It had n't got its +sixpence yet. I must stop the roaring fellow, or his mates might get +out of control. I borrowed a box of matches from the nearest man. +'Catch!' I cried to the noisy chap. He caught it as I flung it over +the heads of the crowd. 'Now, then,' I called to him, 'if you are +crazy, if you don't care what happens to all these men and their wives +and children, and if you want to ruin this strike, go, fire the docks!' +But the man did n't move. I waited, but still he did n't move. Then I +said: 'Your hand has n't the courage of your mouth. Take the matches +from him, men, hand 'em back to me. Make way for him. He 's shown +that he 's a braggin' coward. Out with him!' He skulked away, hooted +by the crowd. I suppose that was the +<SPAN CLASS="pagenum">{<A NAME="P234"></A>234}</SPAN> +origin of the yarn that I +was inciting the mob to burn the docks." +</P> + +<P> +"That's the way history is written, John Burns. Have you found your +dockers suspicious regarding you?" Meredith put the question with a +naïve air. +</P> + +<P> +"Of course. Men of their kind are always suspicious, until they know +you. Why should n't they be? Whoever went among 'em before those days +with any other purpose than to get the best of 'em?" +</P> + +<P> +"They suspected your decent clothes," said I. +</P> + +<P> +Burns laughed. "One morning I appeared in a new suit of blue serge +like this, and a new straw hat, like that. 'Where'd you get 'em, +Burns?' one man shouted. 'He 's makin' more 'n sixpence out o' us,' +yelled another. Then I had to explain, anyhow, I did explain, that +Madame Tussaud's had given me a new suit, so that they could put my old +one on a wax figure of me. Tussaud's wanted my old hat, but my wife +would n't part with that. She wanted it as a trophy." +</P> + +<P> +We sat at table all the evening talking, George Meredith, John Burns, +and I. Of all the men one had ever heard talk, I can't remember one +who had a charm of voice and speech excelling Meredith's. I can feel +its fascination now across the interval of nearly thirty years. It +was, I have said, a musical voice, but it was more than that. It was +rich and deep and delicate. The enunciation was perfect with a +perfection that was rare and individual; his voice was an instrument +with many banks of keys. Charm was its characteristic, charm that no +<SPAN CLASS="pagenum">{<A NAME="P235"></A>235}</SPAN> +one could describe, although many have tried to do so. And his +eyes, you could say, were bluish-grey, or grey-blue, but you could not +say—as they twinkled, or flashed, or seemed at rest like little lakes, +pellucid, undisturbed, or lighted instantly as some humorous or +sympathetic thought moved behind them—you could not say how, or why +they held you, or had the power, a pleasant power, of searching you, +looking through you. There was nothing that you could describe in so +many words, but there was much that you could feel and like. Even when +Meredith spoke of man, or woman, or deed that he did not like, and +spoke with dramatic force, his gaze would not blaze or harden. He +seemed to be searching serenely beyond the surface for the element of +comedy, searching with sympathy and humour for the thing that he could +understand, and understand better than any one else in the world. You +could always touch him with a sympathetic humour. He did not like wise +owls, or rather the owlishness which the run of humans take for wisdom. +</P> + +<P> +His strength, George Meredith's strength, was in his perceptions, his +appreciations; physically he was frail, or was frail then! You would +n't have supposed him ever to have been a great walker and a man of +athletic tendencies. But he had been. Now he walked rather slowly, +with a stick, and seemed glad to stop every few minutes. His face made +me think of a cameo, by the delicacy of its carving. There was +exquisite beauty in it, and the voice enhanced that. But even the most +delicate lines +<SPAN CLASS="pagenum">{<A NAME="P236"></A>236}</SPAN> +were firmly carved. If you handled him roughly +you might bend him, but you could not break his spirit. At the time I +speak of, he was beyond his years, far beyond them; physically, but in +no other way, he seemed an old and fragile man. And yet neither voice +nor eyes suggested anything of the kind. In spirits and outlook he +retained the keenness of mighty youth. When he talked with us he was +of no age at all, the agelessness of the eternal; it was only when he +walked with us about his garden, or over Box Hill, that the flesh +betrayed, now and then, its limitations. If you had had his eyes, you +might have looked through his body. A strong wind might have carried +him away. But he lived sixteen years after that, and, for all his +touch of melancholy, they were happy years. +</P> + +<P> +Others could tell other tales of him and have done so; have said, for +one thing, that he was quick and tempery. What they meant was that his +highly sensitive make-up had n't its times or seasons, but were on and +off quite unexpectedly, as is usually the case with highly sensitive +folk. Men do not study such sensitive creatures with the object of +avoiding trouble; they blunder and thunder on and then are amazed, when +they have struck a nerve centre, to find that it has its own method of +reacting. And then George Meredith had been more than half his life a +reader for publishers. And all his life he was writing poetry and +novels! Now if there is any act less likely than another to insure +peace of mind, it is the reading of other persons' manuscripts. And to +do that regularly, professionally, for several +<SPAN CLASS="pagenum">{<A NAME="P237"></A>237}</SPAN> +decades, while you +prefer to be a poet and love to be a novelist, is to give oneself to +occupations which not only jar upon each other, but upon the nerves of +him that undertakes the triple task. Meredith must have had a rare +power of concentration to preserve his own authorship from saturation +in the flood of manuscripts in which he swam for forty years. His +experiences would have paralysed the creative capacity in most men. +</P> + +<P> +I can suppose only that they who found his talk "artificial" must have +touched some spring in him that Burns and I did not press. We found +him entirely free from artificiality. No pair of strangers could have +been more agreeably entertained. And yet we inflicted upon him a long +day. They say he was "gey ill to live wi'." Perhaps he was; perhaps +he was not. But why should n't he have been? Most writers are. And +why should n't they be? They are of a sensitive sort, in greater +degree, or less. Their business is mainly to observe, to consider, to +speak with ink. These things require concentration of mind. And while +the world is running in and out, and kindly intentioned persons are +making suggestions which have no relation to the business in hand, or +wondering why their wish cannot have precedence, or why their opinion +is not the most important thing in the universe, the poet's work, or +train of thought, has to get on, or the novelist's, or the reader of +manuscripts'. It may be true that no creative gentleman has a right to +moods, but at least he has a right to tenses. No such plea is put +forth for the rest of mankind. +<SPAN CLASS="pagenum">{<A NAME="P238"></A>238}</SPAN> +Probably the fact is that the +person criticising considers his own mood the more important of the +two. Artistic sensibilities are as difficult for their possessors to +endure all the time as they can possibly be for any one else to +encounter a part of the time. But who ever thinks of that? +</P> + +<P> +We talked on through the evening, without leaving the dining room. I +caught Burns looking apprehensively at the clock. "Yes," said I, "we +can catch it if we go at once. It's the last train." There was a +hurried leave-taking, and we were off. We left the kind old gentleman +standing in the doorway, holding a lamp which lighted us down the path +and shone full upon his face. +</P> + +<P> +"Well?" said Burns, when we were seated in the train. +</P> + +<P> +"A glorious day!" I answered. +</P> + +<P> +"Never a better," said Burns. +</P> + +<P> +Surely we never went through a better day together, and we went through +many. +</P> + +<P> +Late one afternoon in 1907, I was crossing the outer lobby of the House +of Commons just as John Burns was crossing it in the opposite +direction. He saw me first and called out to me. +</P> + +<P> +"Where have you come from now?" he asked, when we had shaken hands. +"And how long is it since we met?" +</P> + +<P> +"America this time," said I. "I 've been there four years. But it +must be seven years since I 've seen you." +</P> + +<P> +"Gadabout!" said he. "Did you ever have another Meredith day?" +</P> + +<SPAN CLASS="pagenum">{<A NAME="P239"></A>239}</SPAN> + +<P> +"No," said I, "nor anything like it. Let's go again." +</P> + +<P> +"Let's," was his response. +</P> + +<P> +But we did not go again, for, as it turned out, another ten days called +me back to America. Burns, of course, was already in the Cabinet, but +he wore a blue serge suit, just as of yore. +</P> + +<P> +In 1913 when again I came to England, I did not see him. I had several +months in the country but only ten days in town, when I fled with an +attentive influenza which Freshwater drove away. +</P> + +<P> +But in 1916, having come the day before from a liner at Liverpool, I +was walking in Victoria Street just as Burns turned a corner. +</P> + +<P> +"The oddest thing," said he. "I was just thinking of our day with +Meredith. Let's talk. But don't talk politics. Which way are you +going?" +</P> + +<P> +"Any way," I said. And we strolled into the cloisters of Westminster +Abbey. +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="chap16"></A> + +<SPAN CLASS="pagenum">{<A NAME="P240"></A>240}</SPAN> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +CHAPTER XVI +</H3> + +<H4 ALIGN="center"> +PARNELL +</H4> + +<P> +The man most talked of in '88-'90 was not Mr. Gladstone but Mr. +Parnell. The Parnell Commission "had shaken the earth", as an Irish +writer said in a moment of unusual restraint. And during its +long-drawn life, as during the events which immediately had preceded +it, "the uncrowned king of Ireland" was the foremost topic of +conversation and of newspaper attention. From the ordeal of the +Commission he emerged with triumph, a triumph which in its turn caused +some planetary commotion, only to be met with the divorce suit of +Captain O'Shea, and the subsequent storms, and snarls, and hopeless +desertions of Committee Room Fifteen. Thence to heartbreak and death +was but a short and rapid decline. +</P> + +<P> +I knew Parnell but slightly; no one knew him well. Lord Salisbury did +not know him at all, had never taken the trouble to cross the lobbies +between the Houses of Lords and Commons and look at him or listen to +him. "I have never seen him," said Mr. Gladstone's rival. And it was +common report that the men who knew Parnell least of all, and least of +all about him, were his own +<SPAN CLASS="pagenum">{<A NAME="P241"></A>241}</SPAN> +followers. Even that is possible, if +it seems unlikely. One of his most conspicuous followers, who wrote +conspicuously and talked about him and about Home Rule, I knew very +well, and for years I wondered if he really knew as little as he said +he did about his chief's ways and work and wisdom. He made a great +mystery of them, as many of the Irish members did, or pretended to do. +They told you that he kept them at arm's length, scarcely nodded to +them, or, if he nodded, did so in a manner that was cold and distant +beyond belief. They were the dust beneath his feet. But they told you +that they did not resent this treatment; it showed the superiority of +the man. +</P> + +<P> +Whether they resented it or not, you may form your own opinion by what +they did to him when they got the chance. But before the squalls and +gales arose in Committee Room Fifteen, he had held them together; they +were a disciplined body. No man before his day had been able to hold +them together, to discipline them, to force his will upon them. No +other parliamentary leader of the Irish before him produced results. +But he produced them. His followers feared him, and they feared him +because he was so unlike themselves, so un-Irish. His "mystery" lay in +his immense capacity for holding his tongue; in his aloofness; in his +concentration. He knew how to get from the rest of the United Kingdom, +from the English and Scotch and so on, what he wanted; as a rule, his +followers did not. He knew how to play the political game in the +British way, with additions of his own; his +<SPAN CLASS="pagenum">{<A NAME="P242"></A>242}</SPAN> +followers did not. +They had not the patience; they may have had other qualities more +captivating than his, but they had not the patience or the art of +command. +</P> + +<P> +There was a time when I doubted that he was really so elusive as +political persons said. And if he were so, why? It could not be for +the mere pleasure of eluding, or deluding people. There would be very +little pleasure in that. Well, one day my doubt was dispelled. +</P> + +<P> +Parnell had made an appointment to see me at the House of Commons. It +was not for the purposes of a newspaper interview, for he would not +have given himself the trouble on that account. It was not for any +purpose or interest of my own. I had conveyed to him a proposal from +an American editor. It was a proposal which Parnell had not only not +declined, but which he was considering with some favour. I was to meet +him again and discuss it further. The time and place were of his +choosing. I was punctually there, only to be met with the message: +"Mr. Parnell is not in the House." +</P> + +<P> +That may have been technically true, as Mrs. A. may be technically "not +at home" to Mrs. B. But he was somewhere on the premises, because I +saw him enter them. There were good reasons for assuming that the +appointment had not slipped his mind, or his memoranda. And so I +thought that the person who told me Parnell was not in the House might +have invented the reply he gave. He knew of the appointment, and, +though he did not know its purpose, knew that Parnell had wished to +<SPAN CLASS="pagenum">{<A NAME="P243"></A>243}</SPAN> +see me; why, then, should he give a reply which might put his +Chief in the wrong. But then, why had not Parnell sent word or left +word, making another appointment? He would scarcely have declined the +proposal from America without the courtesy of another meeting. Indeed, +he had promised that. +</P> + +<P> +"Very well," I said, "I will wait." +</P> + +<P> +But the agreeable gentleman could not assure me that Mr. Parnell would +be at the House that day. +</P> + +<P> +"Has he been here?" +</P> + +<P> +"I believe so." +</P> + +<P> +It was too early to go away. Question time was not over. I decided to +wait. Mr. Parnell's representative withdrew. After a while I thought +there had been a mistake somewhere. Then I remembered that the +emissary "could not assure" me, etc. I thought this odd, in the +circumstances, and concluded not to wait any longer. The affair was +Parnell's, not mine. But if he had decided to decline the proposal +concerning which he had invited me to call upon him, it was not +particularly civil of him to take this offhand way of doing so. I left +the House and went toward the Westminster Bridge station of the +Underground Railway, just opposite the Clock Tower of St. Stephen's. +Turning the corner by the gates of Palace Yard, I saw Parnell, ahead of +me, cross the street and enter the railway station. He took an +eastbound train. I was just in time to catch the same train but not to +catch him. +</P> + +<P> +He alighted at the next station, Charing Cross. So did I, intent on +overtaking him. But there was +<SPAN CLASS="pagenum">{<A NAME="P244"></A>244}</SPAN> +a blocking crowd at the exit +stairs where tickets were collected, and he was away first. Up +Villiers Street I followed him to the top at the Strand, where he +turned into the South Eastern Railway station. This was interesting. +Why had n't he, I wondered, taken the outside stairs that led from +Villiers Street into the station? +</P> + +<P> +"Possibly he has caught sight of me," I thought. "Is he trying to +elude me? Let's see." +</P> + +<P> +He entered the South Eastern station at the left-hand door. He left it +presently by the door on the other side of the cab yard and crossed the +Strand to the telegraph office, which at that time was exactly opposite +the cab entrance to the railway. I withdrew into the tobacconist's +pavilion at the gate and there awaited Parnell's exit from the +telegraph office. But he didn't recross the Strand to the station. A +hansom was passing the telegraph office door. Parnell ran out, hailed +the cab, entered it, and drove eastward along the Strand. I took +another cab and kept his in sight. His cab was held up by a block a +little to the west of Wellington Street, where a long stream of traffic +was crossing to Waterloo Bridge. Parnell left his cab in the crush and +disappeared in the pack of humans and vehicles. I left my cab, walked +back a short distance along the south side of the Strand, and there +turned down by the Savoy Theatre, lingering a little, and then down the +steps to the Embankment, keeping inside the gardens. My guess was +right. Parnell passed within a few feet of me. He was walking +westward. I walked inside the gardens, +<SPAN CLASS="pagenum">{<A NAME="P245"></A>245}</SPAN> +he outside and well in +advance. He reached the Underground station again, passed through it +to Villiers Street, walked up Villiers Street to the wooden stairs of +the South Eastern, while I remained at the entrance of the Underground. +Then I took a cab to my Club in Piccadilly. +</P> + +<P> +If Parnell thought that he had the best of the chase, that he had given +me "the slip", he had another opinion, probably, when, as he was about +to enter a suburban train, he was approached by a courteous young man +who introduced himself as my assistant and said how fortunate it was +meeting like this, because it gave him the opportunity to ask if Mr. +Parnell would send me the reply which he had promised for that day, as +I wished to cable it to New York. +</P> + +<P> +"Parnell did n't turn a hair," said my assistant, when he reported to +me at the Club a few minutes later. "If he were surprised, he did n't +show it. But he narrowed his eyes and said, in a frigid way that +brought down the temperature of that cold station, 'I will write.' And +then the train started." +</P> + +<P> +"And he with it?" I asked. +</P> + +<P> +"No. It left both of us on the platform. I bade him good afternoon +and came here. I suppose he took the next train." +</P> + +<P> +I made no comment, but calling for a cable form, wrote on it this +message for New York: +</P> + +<P> + "Parnell declines."<BR> +</P> + +<BR> + +<P> +"But he has n't declined," my assistant exclaimed. +</P> + +<P> + +<SPAN CLASS="pagenum">{<A NAME="P246"></A>246}</SPAN> + +</P> + +<P> +"No, but he will. You can keep that cable message in your pocket until +he does." +</P> + +<P> +The reason I had not followed Parnell into the South Eastern station +was that in the train from Westminster to Charing Cross I had told my +assistant what to do, and where I thought Parnell was going. +</P> + +<P> +For Parnell's reply I did n't care one way or another. But I thought +that I was even with him for his evasion of me at the House, of his +treatment of an appointment which he had made, and of a courteous +proposal. My method of letting him know, without having said so, that +I was not entirely ignorant of his reasons was, in the circumstances, +quite legitimate. He could not and did not take open exception to it. +And for nearly thirty years I never mentioned it. I do so now simply +to illustrate what I mean by his elusiveness. It may interest the few +who remember some of his traits. It is quite erroneous to suppose, as +many souls not altogether simple seem to do, that a journalist always +tells all that he knows. +</P> + +<P> +But I might throw in here this remark: In all that promenade and hide +and seek in London streets, nobody seemed to recognise Parnell, nobody +turned to look at him. He was merely a passerby like another. Crowds +stare, they do not observe. They see only what is pointed out to them, +what they expect to see,—and not always that. +</P> + +<P> +Two or three days later, in reply to a telegram of inquiry, Parnell +declined the proposal from America. My assistant sent both the inquiry +and my cable. Concerning the latter, he asked me: +</P> + +<SPAN CLASS="pagenum">{<A NAME="P247"></A>247}</SPAN> + +<P> +"What made you certain in advance?" +</P> + +<P> +"A rule known to astute politicians—2 and 2 make 4. It is not altered +by Home Rule, or other matters." +</P> + +<P> +I have often observed, with forty years of opportunity for doing so, +that few persons know so little of conditions in Ireland, of Irish +conditions in Parliament, of the "Irish movement", whatever that may be +at any given time, as the Americans, and particularly the Irish in +America. I have had my share of rebuke for mentioning this. An +illustration will serve. +</P> + +<P> +During the summer of 1890 I had a few weeks in the United States. One +evening in Boston I happened to meet, as I was passing his office, a +man whom I knew well, Jeffrey Roche, Editor of <I>The Pilot</I>, an Irish +paper and the principal organ of Roman Catholicism in New England. +Roche had been the assistant, and later became the successor, to the +late John Boyle O'Reilly, and like him was a delightful and lovable +fellow and the writer of charming verse. He hated England, of course, +and as I did not, we had many tilts, in print and out of it, but we +were always good friends. +</P> + +<P> +"Hullo, Jeffrey," said I. +</P> + +<P> +"Hullo, my enemy," said he, laughing as we shook hands. +</P> + +<P> +"Why 'enemy'?" I asked. "Has poor old Ireland another grievance?" +</P> + +<P> +"You wronged Parnell!" +</P> + +<P> +"Sit down and tell me about it," said I. +</P> + +<P> +And we went to dine at the nearest restaurant where the dear fellow +explained that an article of +<SPAN CLASS="pagenum">{<A NAME="P248"></A>248}</SPAN> +mine, sent from London and published +in the <I>Boston Herald</I> during the previous February, had "scandalised +all Irishmen" and "imperilled the chances of Home Rule." +</P> + +<P> +"Dear, dear," said I, "that's a lot for one man to do! How did it +happen?" +</P> + +<P> +"Your article said that an action for divorce had been entered by a +Captain O'Shea who named Parnell as corespondent." +</P> + +<P> +"Well, what of it? Everybody knows it." +</P> + +<P> +"I don't know it. We don't know it here. Nobody knows it." +</P> + +<P> +"And you 're an editor, Jeffrey! Is that the way you keep the run of +the news?" +</P> + +<P> +"Such a case has never been tried." +</P> + +<P> +"It has not <I>yet</I> been tried, you mean. Of course not; it has to take +its turn. It will come on in the autumn." +</P> + +<P> +"Who is O'Shea?" +</P> + +<P> +I stared at Roche in amazement. And then I laughed. +</P> + +<P> +"Jeffrey," said I, "you do it very well." +</P> + +<P> +"Do what? No," said he, "it is n't acting. Who is he?" +</P> + +<P> +I told him, and added that the question had been put differently by the +Irish members of Parliament a long time ago. They asked at one +time—"Why is he?" After a while they asked nothing. +</P> + +<P> +"And your article said that the Irish party would turn against Parnell +if the case were tried, and that the English Liberals would throw him +over, and the Home Rule cause would go to pieces." +</P> + +<SPAN CLASS="pagenum">{<A NAME="P249"></A>249}</SPAN> + +<P> +"Pardon me, Jeffrey, my article said that those would be some of the +results if O'Shea won his case, not if the case were tried." +</P> + +<P> +"Gladstone would n't turn against Parnell!" +</P> + +<P> +"Jeffrey, if that's all you know about the Irish Question, take my +advice and return to Ireland by the next ship and study it on the spot. +Then go to Westminster and study it there. Learn what the Unionists +think, what Liberals think, and what Mr. Gladstone, as leader of the +Liberal Party, has to think, and—" +</P> + +<P> +"It's another Piggott trick! Parnell's defence will show it all up." +</P> + +<P> +"Suppose he should n't defend himself?" +</P> + +<P> +"That's unfair!" +</P> + +<P> +"Let me tell you a thing or two. Make a note of 'em, and see what +happens within a year!" +</P> + +<P> +In the course of the next two hours Roche heard more of the inside of +Irish and English politics than I would have supposed could previously +have escaped an editor's mind. It was clear that the comings and +goings of Irish parliamentarians bent on propaganda and money-raising +had not left behind much information that could guide a distant editor +over a course abounding with obstacles. My experience with Roche that +evening resembled all the experiences I have ever had in the United +States when talking on the Irish question with persons who seemed +really anxious for information. And the situation is much the same at +this hour, differing only in kind, not in degree. +</P> + +<P> +The events of November and December, 1890, +<SPAN CLASS="pagenum">{<A NAME="P250"></A>250}</SPAN> +proved to my doubting +friend the truth of all I had told in print or out of it during the +preceding months. But he was as much surprised at the end of the year +as he had been when I talked with him in May. Roche died years ago; +perhaps he knew by that time how matters stood. At all events, perhaps +he knows now. The Irish in America were not in those days, and have +not been since then much or far behind the scenes of a certain +political stage. They have paid their money, and, like other +audiences, have remained in front to watch, to listen, to applaud, or +to hiss. If they have frequently applauded or derided in the wrong +places, other audiences beholding other dramas have done no less. +</P> + +<P> +The conditions in Ireland, and concerning Ireland, are not new to me. +I have known them pretty well for forty years. If I were an Irishman I +would think, no doubt, on most points political, with other fellow +countrymen of my party. But what party would that be? I might answer, +if you could tell me where I would have been born and of what religious +faith. My sympathy with Ireland is deep; it would be so, if only for +the matchless, the invincible stupidity with which she has been and is +still governed. But her "injustices" and "woes" have long since been +wiped out. That is one thing they do not know in America. But it is +unnecessary to go beyond certain Nationalist speeches in the House of +Commons to learn as much. John Redmond said a good deal on that point. +But now there are no Nationalist speeches, no Nationalist members to +speak of. The Nationalist Party is dead. The +<SPAN CLASS="pagenum">{<A NAME="P251"></A>251}</SPAN> +Irish seats in the +House of Commons are empty, voluntarily empty. Had Ireland done her +share in the War, she would have had Home Rule before the Armistice. +But she would not do her share, and she does not appear to desire Home +Rule, and Great Britain did not try to force her. In America the +meaning of this is not quite understood. While Great Britain was +sending millions of men to the front, while her manhood was everywhere +conscripted, while her fathers and sons were fighting the malignant +German, while she was depriving herself of money, food, clothing, +economising in the very necessaries of life, not merely in order to +provide for her armies, but to aid her allies, Ireland did nothing. +Ireland's food was not rationed; she had plenty and to spare; plenty to +eat, plenty to drink, plenty to wear; petrol and motor cars were not +forbidden her, they were forbidden to Britain; the luxuries which +Britain denied herself were abundant in Ireland; she was, in fact, the +most favoured country in Europe. She was never so prosperous as +throughout the war. +</P> + +<P> +But not a hand would she lift to defend her soil against the Germans. +Thousands of Irishmen were at the front; they fought splendidly, but it +was not in accordance with the will of Ireland that they fought. It +was because they willed it themselves. Ireland was exempted from +conscription. Englishmen and Scotsmen, Welshmen and Cornishmen, all +the men and all the women from Land's End to John O'Groat's have long +memories for things like that. And so have many Americans. +</P> + +<SPAN CLASS="pagenum">{<A NAME="P252"></A>252}</SPAN> + +<P> +It is useless, I suppose, to say that Parnell's course had he lived to +and through the war time, still leading Irish politics, would have been +this, or would have been that. He did not have to face such +conditions; they were not forward in his time, but they were always at +the back of the minds of some British statesmen, and he knew it. He +knew that the dominant reason which stood between Ireland and +Independence was the need of Great Britain to guard herself against +attacks and invasions from the Continent. France was thought to be the +potential enemy then, as she had been supposedly since the days of +Napoleon I. Well, we know what Germany did. England could no more +allow the island on her western flank to become an independent power +than the United States could permit any of her forty-eight States to +break away from the family roof. Are arguments for separation based on +racial and religious differences more valid in the case of Ireland than +they are in the case of the United States? What are the racial +differences between Ireland and Great Britain compared with the racial +differences in the United States, differences which arose through +conquest and purchase, not alone through immigration? The Indians, the +Mexicans, the Spaniards, the French, the Negroes? And then the welter +of immigrations on top of these? And is the argument for majority +rule, based, as it is usually, upon the majority in Ireland, more +valid? Ireland is, and has been for centuries, an integral part, a +vital part of the political organism known since 1801 as "the United +Kingdom", and +<SPAN CLASS="pagenum">{<A NAME="P253"></A>253}</SPAN> +of that organism the Irish population, in Ireland, +is but a small minority of the whole! In an age of democracy shall a +minority rule? In the United States we know something about secession; +we have clear and firm opinions on it now. Why should we expect +Britain to permit the secession of Ireland? And if the Ulster problem +presents such "vast difficulties", what becomes of the famous +panacea—Self-Determination? Won't the panacea work in Ulster's case? +</P> + +<P> +These points were just as clear in Parnell's day as they are this +morning. The Home Rule cause was one thing; the Separatist, +Independence case was quite distinctly another thing. Parnell knew +that he could never satisfy Ireland if Independence were what she +wanted. The hot-heads in her politics were seeking that and not Home +Rule. Home Rule was almost won by Parnell; after him it was thrown +away by bitter dissensions within his party. Thirty years more were +required to bring the factions to a point where they could pull +together. Then the inevitable dissensions broke out anew. The power +that had been John Redmond's slipped away, and Redmond's party went to +pieces as Parnell's had done. It is folly to put the blame on the +Nationalists alone, or on the Ulstermen alone. The conditions do not +mix. They are antagonistic. +</P> + +<P> +And, though the ideals of Ulster are not the ideals of the rest of +Ireland, must Ulster be punished for her ideals? Ulster asks the +privilege of being loyal to Britain. Must she then be punished for her +<SPAN CLASS="pagenum">{<A NAME="P254"></A>254}</SPAN> +loyalty and punished by Britain? That is a question which +Americans who are so frequently called upon to interfere in the Irish +question never ask themselves, because it is never presented to them. +But if they were to ask it concerning any State in the American Union +in its relation to the Government at Washington, there is no doubt what +their answer would be. +</P> + +<P> +What of the rest of Ireland? At present the Sinn Feiners have the +floor. They proclaim openly what the Nationalists, or most of them, +are said to have concealed; their object,—Independence. But they know +that if Ireland should become an Independent Power, she must meet her +obligations of financial maintenance. She could not meet them without +drawing upon, or absorbing the revenues of Ulster. And she might not +be able to meet them then. Are these matters, and matters such as +these, to be settled, or even helped by pious resolutions passed in +Madison Square Garden, or Faneuil Hall, or the Congress at Washington? +</P> + +<P> +It might be thought that the ingenuity of man, to say nothing of his +justice, could find a way out of this age-long dilemma. It can be seen +that the dilemma is not quite so simple as at a distance it has been +commonly supposed. And it can be said that difficult as the problem +is, it has become none the less difficult through the conflict of views +and policies of Sinn Feiners, clericals, Home Rulers, Ulstermen, the +Asquith government, or the Lloyd-George government, politicians in +America, or rhetoricians anywhere. +</P> + +<SPAN CLASS="pagenum">{<A NAME="P255"></A>255}</SPAN> + +<P> +I find that thirty years ago I wrote in an American newspaper: "Parnell +puzzles the British mind, because measures proposed in behalf of +Ireland are rejected whether they come from Mr. Gladstone or from Mr. +Balfour. It has not yet dawned upon the British mind that Parnell +means that Parliament wastes its time over land bills and other +remedial legislation; that the Irish mean to settle the land question, +and all other Irish questions, without English assistance. What he +wants is Home Rule and not land acts. What he wants beyond Home Rule +he does not say, and no one is in his confidence." +</P> + +<P> +It was all very well, but he could not prevent the Briton from bringing +gifts, nor could he avoid him. The world has moved a long way since +Parnell died and has brought changes of which he did not dream. But +there, stripped of detail, was his object. If the ultimate object were +not set forth, it was because he wanted Ireland to get Home Rule first. +The difficulties of the step beyond that he knew well and appreciated +thoroughly. Perhaps it was because he knew the British view so well, +and could understand it so well because he was half-English and +half-American, that his point of view was not limited by Irish +experiences and aspirations. It may be that he did not expect +Independence in his time, perhaps not really at any time. But whether +he did or not, he said in the House of Commons, in April, 1890, "We +have not based our claims to nationhood on the sufferings of our +country." Well, if they were based on other +<SPAN CLASS="pagenum">{<A NAME="P256"></A>256}</SPAN> +grounds, it is +likely that he saw insurmountable obstacles in their way. +</P> + +<P> +I am far from agreeing with the conventional assertion that Parnell +wrecked his party and postponed Home Rule by a generation. Such +assertions are made easily, and they are easily accepted by the crowd. +They ignore many other factors, even factors that I have suggested +here. And they ignore the necessity which all politicians were under, +or supposed themselves to be under, of claiming a virtue, though some +had it not. I think of some politicians who were professionally +horrified over the O'Shea case, although their own lives would not have +borne the examination of a divorce court, and who had not in their +lives the mitigating circumstance that Parnell had,—an absorbing love. +And I think of the politicians who were professionally "surprised" but +who had had a long preparation for what was coming. All the forces of +hypocrisy and cant were let loose at that time, all the forces of envy, +hatred, malice, and uncharitableness; and they did not rest until +Parnell was crushed and dead. The spectacle was enough to make one +nauseated forever with politics—and some other things. +</P> + +<P> +Mrs. Parnell's book on her husband, published in 1916, throws a clear +light upon that chapter in Parnell's life. I see no reason to doubt +its statements and conclusions; I see many reasons for accepting them. +They confirm the impressions that many of us had thirty years ago, and +relate facts that some of us more than surmised at that +<SPAN CLASS="pagenum">{<A NAME="P257"></A>257}</SPAN> +time, and +before it. It is scarcely possible for them to deal with the hypocrisy +and jealousy, revengefulness and cant that broke a man's life and a +nation's cause. These were not in Ireland alone. Britain and America +had their share. +</P> + +<P> +Was Parnell a great man? I am inclined to think that he just missed +greatness. If he had won, there would be no doubt, I suppose. That he +was the man for his time there can be no denying. It is idle, I +suppose, to speculate whether he would have been the man for the time +after Home Rule had been gained, for then the duties would have been +vastly different. And yet they would have called for qualities not +common among Irishmen, among political Irishmen in Ireland, I +mean,—the qualities that made him eminent and successful as a leader. +He was not eloquent, but eloquence is not essential to greatness. He +did not inspire affection, devotion. To this it may be answered that +the people of his country loved him. So they did. But a great many +politicians who were his followers did not. Some of them entertained +for him emotions quite opposite to love. Of course he inspired +respect; more than that, he instilled fear into the hearts of his +parliamentary army. They feared him then. But if his aloofness, his +detachment from the usual, even the unusual, affairs of society and +human interest, was one of his most remarkable characteristics, it was +in his favour rather than against him, it contributed to "the mystery" +in which his personality was shrouded, a mystery cultivated less by +himself than by legend. +<SPAN CLASS="pagenum">{<A NAME="P258"></A>258}</SPAN> +An eminent politician whose life is +isolated must be "mysterious" to the crowd. +</P> + +<P> +He did not care for the play, for music, for pictures, or for +literature, excepting when literature bore upon the work in hand. He +did not care for society, for sport, for games of any kind. And so he +was a mystery to more countries than one. He was easily bored; the +ordinary life of politics bored him, his followers bored him; it often +bored him to make a speech. His power was in his set purpose, his +concentration upon it, his absolute disinterestedness. Save in one +instance, he ground no axe and was not the cause of axe-grinding by +others. +</P> + +<P> +Although he was not an orator, he could and did put a case plainly, +strongly, indeed with very great strength. He was cool when it paid to +be cool, vigorous when vigour was required; he was seldom impassioned. +When he was angriest he was least stirred. Internally he might rage, +as when under general attack, when the assailants were, in a double +sense, offensive, but outwardly he would be calm and pale. You would +know when he felt the fiercest stress, not by his voice nor by his +actions, but by his pallor. It was only in the last months of his life +that he gave his temper free rein, let himself go, fiercely lashed his +opponents, hitherto his partisans. There was something of revenge in +this, of resentful wrath long pent up. Who shall say it was not +justified, or that it was unnatural? +</P> + +<P> +What he would have been as an administrator we have no means of +knowing. What he would +<SPAN CLASS="pagenum">{<A NAME="P259"></A>259}</SPAN> +have been as the leader of an Irish +parliament we may at least imagine. He had always been in Opposition. +What he would have been in power we may guess but never know. But his +lot would not have been enviable. It was never enviable. His death, +in 1891, was a happy release. +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="chap17"></A> + +<SPAN CLASS="pagenum">{<A NAME="P260"></A>260}</SPAN> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +CHAPTER XVII +</H3> + +<H4 ALIGN="center"> +"LE BRAV' GÉNÉRAL" +</H4> + +<P> +Who <I>was</I> Boulanger? +</P> + +<P> +At the Cheshire Cheese, a year before the war, a young Fleet Streeter +asked the question. He had heard some of us spinning yarns. But the +name of Boulanger meant nothing to him. The world was created in the +year he came to Fleet Street, say in 1908. +</P> + +<P> +There are times when I feel it necessary to apologise for writing of +the days of antiquity. There will certainly be some one to exclaim, +when he sees the heading of this chapter, "Why drag Boulanger into +<I>London Days</I>?" +</P> + +<P> +One answer would be: Because I knew Boulanger in London. +</P> + +<P> +"Was he ever here? How strange we should have forgotten it!" +</P> + +<P> +Not in the least strange. Boulanger was forgotten soon after he +arrived. He arrived at the Hotel Bristol, behind Burlington House, and +was cheered by a few waiters and chambermaids. It was a murky +afternoon in the summer of '89,—dark, damp, and dreary. I saw him +alight from his carriage. Some of the papers next day told of "the +enthusiastic +<SPAN CLASS="pagenum">{<A NAME="P261"></A>261}</SPAN> +greeting" he had received. Thus history is made. A +few waiters, a porter or two, half a dozen chambermaids, and, of +course, a manager. These were the enthusiasts. +</P> + +<P> +It was a little disappointing to those who love "scenes", or have to +describe them. Nothing happened. Of course, it was not disappointing +to realise that one was a prophet. I had prophesied a scene like this, +months before, when quite another kind of scene was being played in +Paris, when Boulanger had the ball at his feet, or the game in his +hands, if you prefer a choice of metaphors. He did n't play. There +was merely an escape of gas from the balloon. The gas was not +inflammable. +</P> + +<P> +"Le brav' Général" they called him. Up to the twenty-eighth of +January, 1889, he was the hope of France. He was to be Head of the +Army, Prime Minister, or President, or King, or Emperor, or Dictator, +whatever he chose. He was to save France. She needed saving. +Politically, she was in the dismallest bog. She needed a MAN, thought +she had found him in Boulanger, and on the twenty-seventh of January, +Paris was to elect him to Parliament. Paris would give him a backing +so enormous that he would "seize the reins of power." There would be a +<I>coup d'état</I>. That was what the papers said. There was quite a +commotion, naturally. +</P> + +<P> +Obviously I must go to Paris before the twenty-seventh; I must see the +<I>coup d'état</I> whose approach was thundering from all the presses of +Europe. There would be articles by the yard. In those +<SPAN CLASS="pagenum">{<A NAME="P262"></A>262}</SPAN> +times, +newspaper reproductions of photographs were even less satisfactory than +they are now. I looked about for an artist who could go with me and +illustrate my articles. He must know something about the trick of +drawing for newspaper reproduction, he must be a quick worker, for +there was no time to be lost, and he must not be too well known because +the chances were that a well-known artist would n't be able to cast his +work aside at a day's notice, and bolt with me for Paris. I sent my +assistant to find the right man. +</P> + +<P> +He returned to me with a dejected look. "I 've found only one man who +can go," said he. +</P> + +<P> +"One is enough," said I. +</P> + +<P> +"Yes, but—will he do? I 've only these two specimens of his work to +show you." And he laid two small drawings before me. +</P> + +<P> +"Capital!" said I. +</P> + +<P> +"He has been in Paris, studied art there. And he lives in Chelsea." +</P> + +<P> +"Terms all right?" I asked. +</P> + +<P> +"Yes." +</P> + +<P> +"Then I 'll see him to-morrow. By the way, what is his name? +</P> + +<P> +"L. Raven-Hill." +</P> + +<P> +And so it came about that the young man—he was a very young man then, +under twenty-two—who was to win fame as one of the principal +cartoonists for Punch, went to Paris with me and illustrated the +Boulanger election. He illustrated for me other subjects in and about +Paris. And when I went to Ireland, to do a series of articles a little + +<SPAN CLASS="pagenum">{<A NAME="P263"></A>263}</SPAN> +later, he was the illustrator. And he drew London subjects for +me. In fact, he was for about six months my chosen illustrator. Then +somebody in authority on the other side of the Atlantic wanted the +preference given to certain other artists. Authority, of course, had +to be obeyed, since it was paymaster. And in this case it had in its +eye one or two young men who had come abroad, and who had influence +enough to pull strings at headquarters. They were cousins to the +owner's aunts, or something like that. Their work was too careless, +grotesque, and altogether weak. After allowing them sufficient +opportunity to demonstrate this, even to the satisfaction of their +proprietary relatives, they were released from service. And ever +afterwards I insisted upon choosing my own illustrators. But meantime +I had lost Raven-Hill, and some foreign mission calling me afield, +there was no opportunity for renewing the connection. When I returned +to London, Raven-Hill had found his feet, as I knew he would. The +other day we compared our recollections of that time. They did not +differ. +</P> + +<P> +His work was admirable, even in those early days. It lent distinction +to the text. I daresay that may have been the only distinction the +text had. Raven-Hill entered into the spirit of the thing, and would +go to any inconvenience to get what I wanted. And in the Boulanger +campaign, that meant a good deal of inconvenience. We travelled by +night trains because they were cheapest. If they were cheapest, they +were also slowest. But all was grist that came to our mill. +</P> + +<SPAN CLASS="pagenum">{<A NAME="P264"></A>264}</SPAN> + +<P> +Paris we reached two days before the election. We looked for +excitement but found none. It is not every day that Paris elects a +"Saviour of France." It was preparing to elect one, and it was certain +that he was to save France. There was a frenzy of bill-posting, but +that was all. All the electioneering was done by post and posters. +Not a speech was made. Posters covered everything, inches deep. Paris +was smothered by them. Boulanger posters were covered with Jacques +posters. Jacques was the candidate opposing "Le brav' Général." +Jacques was a nobody with money. Only a nobody with money could have +afforded to stand against "Le brav' Général." Before he offered +himself for the sacrifice, nobody had ever heard of Jacques. After +election day nobody heard of him again. He had his little explosion of +glory, and then happy obscurity. But his account for bill-posting and +printing must have been heavy. So must have been Boulanger's. +</P> + +<P> +Statuary was covered with bills, and so were cabs. A Boulangist would +plaster a bill over the nose of a bronze lion. A Jacquesist would +follow and cover the Boulangist bill. The lion in the Place de la +Republique was hideous with bills from his snout to the tip of his +tail, a great-coat of paper. Above the lion a stone shaft was +inscribed: +</P> + +<P CLASS="noindent" ALIGN="center"> +A<BR> +LA GLOIRE<BR> +DE LA<BR> +RÉPUBLIQUE<BR> +FRANÇAISE +</P> + +<SPAN CLASS="pagenum">{<A NAME="P265"></A>265}</SPAN> + +<P> +The Glory of the French Republic seemed great enough to bear with +equanimity the burden of Boulangist printing. The men who were posting +Boulangist bills carried ladders. The Jacques men had no ladders. And +so the Boulangists had the best of it. Wherever there was a smooth +surface, and in numerous places where there was not, bills went up. +They were manifestoes, proclamations, election cries. Nobody made a +speech. The printer did all. Arches, façades, trees, cabs, even the +Opera House itself, theatres, shops, were splashed with coloured bills, +Boulanger over Jacques and Jacques over Boulanger. And only small boys +took notice. +</P> + +<P> +The papers said that large reserves of police were held in readiness; +they said the military had been strengthened. One of them said that +detachments of cavalry had been shod with rubber so they might come +noiselessly upon rioters and smite them unawares. An editor applauded +the ingenious device. He forgot that King Lear, long before, had +thought it +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +"... a delicate stratagem<BR> +To shoe a troop of horse with felt."<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="noindent"> +The London papers were even more excited than the French. In fact, it +had been the alarmist reports of Paris correspondents and news bureaux +that had incited me to the journey. I looked for the exciting scenes +these gentlemen had witnessed and foretold. There was nothing visible +to justify their fears. Where were the marching crowds that were +singing "The Marseillaise"? They had not marched, they +<SPAN CLASS="pagenum">{<A NAME="P266"></A>266}</SPAN> +had not +assembled, they had not sung a note. It is not easy to describe an +invisible demonstration. +</P> + +<P> +We went wherever a demonstration was possible or probable; we covered +Paris by cab, by bus, on foot. Excepting for the posters, Paris +carried itself as usual. +</P> + +<P> +"Go to the Fourth Arrondissement if you would see the fun," said a +friendly councillor who knew the ropes. We went, but "the fun" did not +come. We found three hundred persons at the <I>mairie</I>, half of them +registering, and the other half looking on. They were as solemn as if +they had been paying taxes. The next day, Sunday, the voting took +place. There were 568,697 voters on the registries of Paris. Of these +32,837 did not vote at all, and 27,118 voted neither for Boulanger nor +for Jacques. Boulanger won, hands down. +</P> + +<P> +At eleven o'clock on the Sunday morning we were at Boulanger's house, +expecting that the world would be there. The world was not there, nor +was anybody but ourselves. The Rue Dumont d'Urville (Boulanger lived +at Number 11) looked deserted. It was off the <I>Champs Élysées</I>, near +the <I>Arc de Triomphe</I>. A thousand persons a day had, for weeks, been +calling on "Le brav' Général." In the preceding fortnight the number +had doubled. "To-day the General receives no one," said the boy in +buttons who was sweeping out the hall. So much the better; if he +receives no one to-day, the more chance of seeing him. Besides, +Raven-Hill wanted to draw Boulanger from the life. It would be a fine +thing to have drawn the "Saviour of France" on the +<SPAN CLASS="pagenum">{<A NAME="P267"></A>267}</SPAN> +day when he +saved France; perhaps while he was in the very act of saving her. +</P> + +<P> +"It is impossible," repeated the boy in buttons, "the General does not +receive to-day." +</P> + +<P> +But the General was a political candidate, and the boy in buttons was a +Jew. Palm oil passed from one of us to the buttoned youth. Raven-Hill +sketched him. Jointly we begged for his autograph. He wrote it +underneath his portrait—"Joseph." +</P> + +<P> +"Joseph," said I, "you are famous from this hour. Your portrait will +appear in an American newspaper." Joseph grinned. He yielded. He +disappeared with our cards. Returning presently, he said that the +General would receive us, and he directed us up the stairs. On a +landing above stood "Le brav' Général." He bowed, he shook hands in +the English fashion, he did not embrace us in the French; he smiled, he +bade us enter his study. Monsieur l'artiste might sketch where he +liked. And R-H. sat in a corner, which commanded the large room, and +began to draw without losing a minute. +</P> + +<P> +Would M. le Général talk with me a little while the artist drew? +</P> + +<P> +M. le Général begged a thousand pardons, but he was too much occupied; +moreover he was never interviewed. Would we smoke? We would. He +passed cigarettes. +</P> + +<P> +"But, M. le Général, the election?" +</P> + +<P> +"<I>C'est une chose faite!</I>" +</P> + +<P> +That was all he would say. And then it was only eleven in the morning. +But he declared that the +<SPAN CLASS="pagenum">{<A NAME="P268"></A>268}</SPAN> +thing was done. And this with a calmly +complacent air. I admired his "nerve", as we would say in America. +But that was all he would say: +</P> + +<P> +"<I>C'est une chose faite!</I>" +</P> + +<P> +He repeated it. And I took it that France was saved. And so she was, +but not in the way he had expected; and not by him. +</P> + +<P> +Raven-Hill, whose French was at any rate in better working order than +mine, tried questioning, but "Le brav' Général," with great courtesy, +begged a thousand pardons and deprecated "interviewing." +</P> + +<P> +I begged ten thousand pardons, and R-H. resumed his sketching. "Le +brav' Général" handed me a small bundle of printed matter,—pamphlets, +proclamations, manifestoes, announcements. I would find it all there, +he said. I looked them over, thanking him, and saying that I had +previously read them, which was the case. +</P> + +<P> +"Ah," said he, "<I>c'est une chose faite.</I>" +</P> + +<P> +As a matter of fact, I was quite content. I was getting what I wanted, +the drawings. I did not want political platitudes, and before election +day I had formed the opinion that political platitudes were the +General's stock-in-trade. He had not a single political idea. What he +always said was what his backers wanted him to say. +</P> + +<P> +He was "the man-on-horseback", and that was enough. France had been +looking a long time for the man-on-horseback. He would ride in and +conquer the internal foes of France; they were numerous enough and to +spare. He would unite the country, bring it stability, cleanse the +Augean +<SPAN CLASS="pagenum">{<A NAME="P269"></A>269}</SPAN> +stables, win back Alsace-Lorraine, humble the Germans who +had humiliated them, who had menaced them ever since 1870-1871. He +would be a MAN, this man-on-horseback. And Boulanger had been riding a +white horse these three years. Sometimes he rode a black horse. +</P> + +<P> +At one end of the room, behind the chair where he sat at his writing +table, was a large painting, a very large one, of General Boulanger on +his horse. +</P> + +<P> +The room in which we sat was large, too. It had been a studio and was +now a study. A great fireplace occupied one end of it, and the General +on horseback occupied the other end. The general himself sat below the +portrait, at his writing table, while Raven-Hill drew and I smoked. He +could not have better suited the artist's purpose. He was not quite +like the photographs, engravings, paintings, "reproductions" of him +that one had seen, and that filled France. His hair was not clear +black, and brushed nattily; it was streaked with grey, and worn +shoe-brush fashion. His beard was tawny, touched with grey. His face +was a stronger one, his head a better one, than the conventional +portraits prepared you for. He was between fifty-one and fifty-two at +that time. A handsome man, but disappointing. He did n't impress one +as being a man of authority, of decisions. What his mouth was like, +and what his chin, I do not know. His beard concealed them. But I did +not get from him the impression of strength. And yet he was the most +popular man in France. And that day the eyes not only of France, but +of Europe, were watching him. +</P> + +<SPAN CLASS="pagenum">{<A NAME="P270"></A>270}</SPAN> + +<P> +His face was deeply lined; his eyes were grey; he was in fatigue dress. +May I whisper in your ear? I do not believe that he was pressed with +work; I believe that he was posing for us. +</P> + +<P> +He was a vain creature. His vanity had been much indulged during the +three years or more preceding. He was an ordinary man of showy gifts, +an efficient general in a small way. He had been a favourite of +fortune, and usually in trouble with his superior officers. He always +came out of the trouble "at the top of the heap", as they say. +Freycinet made him Minister of War in '86. The Ministry of War +advertised him up and down the land. It may be said to have begun his +popularity. He looked well after the lot of the private soldier. As +the private soldier came from every home in France, Boulanger had +advocates who carried his name and praises to every fireside. He +understood that sort of thing. His star was rising fast. He glittered +before the eyes of all men. He was an heroic figure at reviews, a much +sought figure in drawing-rooms; the clericals were zealous in his +favour, purses were at his disposal. He was the popular hero, without +having done anything heroic. Powerful partisans played, even paid for +his favour. His principal backer was the Duchesse D'Uzes. There was +an abundance of money. +</P> + +<P> +Well, when the artist had got what he wanted, had drawn the room and +Boulanger, we took our leave and went forth for the melancholy Jacques +and election scenes, saying <I>au revoir</I> to Joseph at the door. Joseph +said—I think he had been +<SPAN CLASS="pagenum">{<A NAME="P271"></A>271}</SPAN> +instructed to say it—and he said it +with an air of one who whispered confidences: +</P> + +<P> +"The General will dine this evening at the Café Durand." +</P> + +<P> +The Café Durand, of course, was opposite the Madeleine. We stopped +there on our way about town. We lunched there, and made friends with +the head waiter, Edmond, a portly personage of manner and renown. +Edmond was enlisted, as Joseph had been. And he signed his portrait +with a flourish quite royal—Edmond Ulray. +</P> + +<P> +Could R-H. see the private room in which General Boulanger and his +friends would dine that evening? +</P> + +<P> +But certainly. And Monsieur could draw it if he chose. +</P> + +<P> +Of course, that was what he chose to do. And when the evening came, it +was quite a simple matter for Edmond to arrange that R-H., without +being seen, should draw "Le brav' Général", and Comte Dillon, and Paul +de Cassagnac, Henri Rochefort, and Paul Deroulade, at the table, in the +front room, up one flight, on the corner overlooking the Madeleine. +</P> + +<P> +Here was the centre of interest that night,—that room in the Café +Durand. Would "Le brav' Général" press the button there, spring his +<I>coup d'état</I>, show himself to the crowd, and proceed triumphantly from +there to the Élysées? That was what the crowd expected. That was what +it wanted. I was outside with the crowd. R-H. was inside, sketching. +It was marvellous how quickly he worked. +</P> + +<P> +The crowd knew that Boulanger was in the Café +<SPAN CLASS="pagenum">{<A NAME="P272"></A>272}</SPAN> +Durand; they knew +that Jacques was in a café on the opposite side of the way; they knew +which was the winner. And the thoroughfares were packed with people. +They wanted to march, they wanted to sing, they wanted to cheer. But +nobody started them. There was no demonstration. Neither side wished +a demonstration to go the wrong way. Both sides knew that the +government had determined to put down riots, revolutions, and +disorders. But why did n't somebody <I>start something</I>? Jacques, being +defeated, did not show himself. Boulanger was victorious, but he did +not show himself. The crowd moved back and forth, packed within the +boulevards. But nothing happened. No hero appeared at a window; +nobody made a speech; not a curtain was drawn aside; not a flag +fluttered. By midnight the crowd had gone home to bed. +</P> + +<P> +And that is why I prophesied that night Boulanger's utter collapse and +his probable flight for safety. Little wisdom was required to make the +prophecy. A man who has the ball at his foot and doesn't kick it is +not the "saviour" of a nation. Boulanger had lost his chance. The +next day he was no longer the most popular of Frenchmen. +</P> + +<P> +He "saved France" by his failure. +</P> + +<P> +A little later he fled to Belgium. A little later still he turned up +in London, as I have said. But he did not stay long at the Hotel +Bristol. He took a furnished house, Number 51 Portland Place, brought +his horses from Paris, and gave out that he would ride in the Park at +the fashionable hour. But he did not ride. And as he did not keep his +word +<SPAN CLASS="pagenum">{<A NAME="P273"></A>273}</SPAN> +in so small a matter, London lost what small interest it had +in him when he did ride, or when he received. One day "a grand +Boulangist demonstration" was announced to take place at the Alexandra +Palace. Proceedings, more or less elaborate, were advertised, and they +were to end with a "banquet" at five shillings a head. Covers were to +be laid for twenty-six hundred persons. Only six hundred persons +appeared. Boulanger was to be "the lion of the season." I don't know +who thought so besides himself. He issued an address "To the People; +My Sole Judge", meaning the people of Paris. The address was nine +columns long! +</P> + +<P> +It fell to my lot to interview him on two or three occasions. I did +not wish to do so, but there were requests from headquarters. Each +time he sang the old songs. The interview that you had with him one +week would do for another, with the change of a few words. He really +liked to talk. He pretended that he disliked being interviewed on +political subjects, but that was mere mock-modesty. He spoke English +well enough. In fact, he had been a schoolboy at Brighton, and he had +represented France at the Centennial Exposition in Philadelphia in +1876. He was merely "layin' low" that day in Paris, like Brer Fox, +only he was not Brer Fox, his one desire being not to have anything +said or done on the twenty-seventh of January that would give the +Government an excuse for a raid on his designs. I think he was rather +a pitiable object. Few others thought so before the twenty-eighth of +January, 1889. He was merely a mechanism for the issue of +<SPAN CLASS="pagenum">{<A NAME="P274"></A>274}</SPAN> +promissory notes. It was about two years after his arrival in London +that he committed suicide on the continent. +</P> + +<P> +How well he illustrated Lincoln's saying about "fooling the people"! +But he did not fool himself. He was the tool of more designing persons. +</P> + +<P CLASS="noindent" ALIGN="center"> +"<I>C'est une chose faite.</I>" +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="index"></A> + +<SPAN CLASS="pagenum">{<A NAME="P277"></A>277}</SPAN> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +INDEX +</H3> + +<P CLASS="index"> +Aberdeen University, <A HREF="#P85">85</A> +</P> + +<P CLASS="index"> +Acting, art of, <A HREF="#P187">187</A>, <A HREF="#P188">188</A>, <A HREF="#P191">191</A> +</P> + +<P CLASS="index"> +Admiralty, the, <A HREF="#P11">11</A> +</P> + +<P CLASS="index"> +Agassiz, Mrs., <A HREF="#P128">128</A> +</P> + +<P CLASS="index"> +<I>Alaska</I> (steamer), <A HREF="#P6">6</A> +</P> + +<P CLASS="index"> +Albert Hall, <A HREF="#P16">16</A> +</P> + +<P CLASS="index"> +Aldrich, Thomas Bailey, anecdote of, <A HREF="#P227">227-228</A>; on Tennyson Memorial +committee, <A HREF="#P128">128</A> +</P> + +<P CLASS="index"> +Aldworth, summer home of Tennyson, <A HREF="#P125">125</A>, <A HREF="#P126">126</A> +</P> + +<P CLASS="index"> +Aldwych, <A HREF="#P11">11</A> +</P> + +<P CLASS="index"> +Alhambra (music hall), <A HREF="#P16">16</A> +</P> + +<P CLASS="index"> +Alma-Tadema, Sir Laurens, <A HREF="#P45">45</A>, <A HREF="#P52">52</A> +</P> + +<P CLASS="index"> +<I>Alsatia</I> (Anchor Line steamer), <A HREF="#P1">1</A>; description of, <A HREF="#P3">3-4</A> +</P> + +<P CLASS="index"> +"Altavona" (by Blackie), <A HREF="#P87">87</A> +</P> + +<P CLASS="index"> +Amiens, <A HREF="#P24">24</A>; cathedral of, <A HREF="#P20">20</A> +</P> + +<P CLASS="index"> +Anecdotes of Aldrich, <A HREF="#P227">227-228</A>; of Drummond, <A HREF="#P181">181-182</A>; of Gladstone, +<A HREF="#P232">232-233</A>; of Tennyson, <A HREF="#P121">121</A>, <A HREF="#P122">122-123</A>, <A HREF="#P129">129-130</A>, <A HREF="#P134">134</A>, <A HREF="#P136">136</A>; of Whistler, +<A HREF="#P157">157-160</A>, <A HREF="#P162">162</A>, <A HREF="#P163">163</A>, <A HREF="#P164">164</A>, <A HREF="#P166">166-167</A> +</P> + +<P CLASS="index"> +<I>Antiquary</I> (magazine), <A HREF="#P133">133</A> +</P> + +<P CLASS="index"> +Architecture of London, <A HREF="#P10">10-13</A> +</P> + +<P CLASS="index"> +<I>Arizona</I> (Guion Line steamer), <A HREF="#P6">6</A>, <A HREF="#P39">39</A> +</P> + +<P CLASS="index"> +Arnold, Sir Edwin, quoted, <A HREF="#P124">124</A> +</P> + +<P CLASS="index"> +Artistic sensibilities, author's comment on, <A HREF="#P237">237-238</A> +</P> + +<P CLASS="index"> +Atelier Gleyre, Paris, <A HREF="#P45">45</A> +</P> + +<BR> + +<P CLASS="index"> +Bancrofts, The, <A HREF="#P16">16</A>, <A HREF="#P53">53</A>, <A HREF="#P186">186</A> +</P> + +<P CLASS="index"> +Barbour, Robert W., description of Professor Blackie, <A HREF="#P92">92-95</A> +</P> + +<P CLASS="index"> +Barrie, Sir James, <A HREF="#P17">17</A> +</P> + +<P CLASS="index"> +Beaconsfield, Lord, quoted, <A HREF="#P142">142</A> +</P> + +<P CLASS="index"> +Bell, Alexander Graham, brings telephone instruments to Europe, <A HREF="#P106">106</A> +</P> + +<P CLASS="index"> +Besant, Sir Walter, <A HREF="#P17">17</A> +</P> + +<P CLASS="index"> +Betterton, fame of, <A HREF="#P185">185</A> +</P> + +<P CLASS="index"> +Bismarck, <A HREF="#P139">139</A> +</P> + +<P CLASS="index"> +Black, William, <A HREF="#P17">17</A>, <A HREF="#P53">53</A> +</P> + +<P CLASS="index"> +Blackie, John Stuart, <A HREF="#P79">79-95</A>; ancestry and early life, <A HREF="#P84">84-85</A>; as a +teacher, <A HREF="#P85">85-86</A>, <A HREF="#P90">90</A>; Barbour's word picture of, <A HREF="#P92">92-95</A>; comments on +pictures in home, <A HREF="#P88">88-89</A>; compiles anthology of Scottish songs, <A HREF="#P87">87</A>; +conversation of, <A HREF="#P83">83-84</A>; description of, <A HREF="#P79">79-80</A>, <A HREF="#P81">81</A>, <A HREF="#P91">91</A>; endows a +professorship at Edinburgh, <A HREF="#P87">87</A>; home of, <A HREF="#P87">87</A>; lecture in Glasgow, <A HREF="#P91">91</A>; +lecturer in Scotland, <A HREF="#P86">86</A>; love for Greek, <A HREF="#P82">82</A>, <A HREF="#P90">90</A>; novel by, <A HREF="#P87">87</A>; +patriotism of, <A HREF="#P87">87</A>; portraits of, <A HREF="#P88">88</A>; quoted, <A HREF="#P79">79-80</A>, <A HREF="#P81">81</A>, <A HREF="#P82">82-83</A>, <A HREF="#P84">84</A>, <A HREF="#P85">85</A>, +<A HREF="#P86">86-87</A>, <A HREF="#P89">89</A>, <A HREF="#P90">90</A>, <A HREF="#P91">91</A>, <A HREF="#P95">95</A>; study of, <A HREF="#P90">90</A>; works of, <A HREF="#P86">86-87</A> +</P> + +<P CLASS="index"> +Blackwood, <A HREF="#P53">53</A> +</P> + +<P CLASS="index"> +Booth, Edwin, <A HREF="#P186">186</A>; art of, <A HREF="#P192">192</A> +</P> + +<P CLASS="index"> +<I>Boston Courier</I>, author's first copy published in, <A HREF="#P28">28</A> +</P> + +<P CLASS="index"> +<I>Boston Herald</I>, author's engagement with, <A HREF="#P39">39-41</A>; author's article +published in, <A HREF="#P248">248</A> +</P> + +<P CLASS="index"> +Bottomley, Dr. J. T., assistant to Lord Kelvin, <A HREF="#P106">106</A> +</P> + +<P CLASS="index"> +Boulanger, General, <A HREF="#P260">260-274</A>; address of, <A HREF="#P273">273</A>; arrival in London, +<A HREF="#P260">260-261</A>; as candidate for French Parliament, <A HREF="#P261">261</A>, <A HREF="#P264">264-265</A>; at café +dinner, <A HREF="#P271">271</A>; author's impressions of, <A HREF="#P268">268</A>, <A HREF="#P269">269</A>, <A HREF="#P270">270</A>, <A HREF="#P272">272</A>, <A HREF="#P273">273-274</A>; +collapse and flight, <A HREF="#P272">272</A>; committed suicide, <A HREF="#P274">274</A>; demonstration for, at +Alexandra Palace, <A HREF="#P273">273</A>; description of, <A HREF="#P269">269-270</A>; drawn by Raven-Hill, +<A HREF="#P269">269</A>, <A HREF="#P271">271</A>; elected to Parliament, <A HREF="#P266">266</A>; interviewed, <A HREF="#P273">273</A>; "man on +horseback," <A HREF="#P268">268-269</A>; Minister of War, <A HREF="#P270">270</A>; represented France at +Centennial Exposition, <A HREF="#P273">273</A> +</P> + +<P CLASS="index"> +Braddon, Miss, <A HREF="#P17">17</A> +</P> + +<P CLASS="index"> +Bridge, Sir Frederick, organist at Westminster Abbey, <A HREF="#P53">53</A>, <A HREF="#P55">55</A>, <A HREF="#P56">56</A> +</P> + +<P CLASS="index"> +Brixton (London), <A HREF="#P2">2</A>, <A HREF="#P3">3</A> +</P> + +<P CLASS="index"> +Browning, Mrs., quoted, <A HREF="#P52">52</A>, <A HREF="#P54">54</A> +</P> + +<P CLASS="index"> +Browning, Robert, burial in Westminster Abbey, <A HREF="#P51">51-56</A>; death of, <A HREF="#P51">51</A>; +friendship with Moscheles, <A HREF="#P42">42</A>, <A HREF="#P44">44</A>, <A HREF="#P47">47</A>, <A HREF="#P50">50</A>; portrait of, <A HREF="#P46">46</A> +</P> + +<P CLASS="index"> +Bryce, Lord, <A HREF="#P52">52</A> +</P> + +<P CLASS="index"> +Buildings, discomfort of some English, <A HREF="#P13">13</A>; interiors of English, <A HREF="#P12">12-13</A>; +London public, <A HREF="#P11">11</A>, <A HREF="#P12">12</A>; warming of English, <A HREF="#P12">12-13</A> +</P> + +<P CLASS="index"> +Burbage, fame of, <A HREF="#P185">185</A> +</P> + +<P CLASS="index"> +Burdett-Coutts, Baroness, welcoming Stanley, <A HREF="#P206">206</A>, <A HREF="#P207">207</A> +</P> + +<P CLASS="index"> +Burne-Jones, Sir Edward, <A HREF="#P53">53</A> +</P> + +<P CLASS="index"> +Burns, John, <A HREF="#P222">222</A>; agitator in "Dock Strike," <A HREF="#P223">223</A>, <A HREF="#P229">229-234</A>; anecdote of +Gladstone, <A HREF="#P232">232-233</A>; day with Meredith, <A HREF="#P224">224-234</A>, <A HREF="#P238">238</A>; dress, <A HREF="#P234">234</A>, <A HREF="#P239">239</A>; +hobbies of, <A HREF="#P226">226-227</A>; meetings with author, <A HREF="#P223">223</A>, <A HREF="#P229">229-234</A>, <A HREF="#P238">238</A>, <A HREF="#P239">239</A> +</P> + +<P CLASS="index"> +Busses, <A HREF="#P13">13-14</A> +</P> + +<P CLASS="index"> +Butler, Doctor (of Trinity College), <A HREF="#P53">53</A> +</P> + +<BR> + +<P CLASS="index"> +Cable, first Atlantic, <A HREF="#P100">100</A>; broke, <A HREF="#P101">101</A>; final success of, <A HREF="#P102">102</A>; first +message over, <A HREF="#P101">101</A>; laid, <A HREF="#P101">101</A>; Lord Kelvin's connection with, <A HREF="#P100">100</A>; +operated, <A HREF="#P101">101</A> +</P> + +<P CLASS="index"> +Cadogan Gardens, home of Moscheles in, <A HREF="#P42">42</A>, <A HREF="#P47">47</A>, <A HREF="#P50">50</A> +</P> + +<P CLASS="index"> +Café Royal, <A HREF="#P16">16</A> +</P> + +<P CLASS="index"> +Calais, <A HREF="#P18">18</A> +</P> + +<P CLASS="index"> +Cameron, Mrs., <A HREF="#P115">115</A>; anecdote of, <A HREF="#P115">115-116</A>; description of, <A HREF="#P115">115</A>, <A HREF="#P116">116</A>, +<A HREF="#P117">117</A>; distributes her photographs, <A HREF="#P122">122</A>; encounter with Garibaldi, <A HREF="#P116">116</A>; +energy of, <A HREF="#P119">119</A>; letter quoted, <A HREF="#P123">123-124</A>; photographs of Tennyson, <A HREF="#P117">117-118</A> +</P> + +<P CLASS="index"> +Canterbury, <A HREF="#P18">18</A>; Archbishop of, <A HREF="#P54">54</A> +</P> + +<P CLASS="index"> +Capel, Monsignor, <A HREF="#P34">34-39</A>; author's meeting with, <A HREF="#P35">35</A>; visit to, <A HREF="#P37">37-38</A>; +death, <A HREF="#P39">39</A>; description of, <A HREF="#P35">35-36</A>, <A HREF="#P37">37</A>; goes to America, <A HREF="#P39">39</A>; home of, <A HREF="#P36">36</A>; +hospitality of, <A HREF="#P37">37</A>; loss of standing, <A HREF="#P38">38</A>; pamphlet by, <A HREF="#P38">38</A> +</P> + +<P CLASS="index"> +Carlton, Hotel, <A HREF="#P16">16</A> +</P> + +<P CLASS="index"> +Carlyle, Thomas, <A HREF="#P162">162</A>; Whistler's portrait of, sold, <A HREF="#P166">166-167</A> +</P> + +<P CLASS="index"> +Carlyle Mansions, <A HREF="#P165">165</A> +</P> + +<P CLASS="index"> +Cecil, Hotel, <A HREF="#P15">15</A> +</P> + +<P CLASS="index"> +Cedar Villa (Kensington), tenants of, <A HREF="#P36">36</A>, <A HREF="#P37">37</A> +</P> + +<P CLASS="index"> +Cederström, Baroness, <I>see</I> Patti +</P> + +<P CLASS="index"> +<I>Century Magazine</I>, <A HREF="#P45">45</A> +</P> + +<P CLASS="index"> +Chelsea Hospital bombed, <A HREF="#P135">135</A> +</P> + +<P CLASS="index"> +Cheshire Cheese, London, <A HREF="#P260">260</A> +</P> + +<P CLASS="index"> +Cheyne Walk, Whistler's house in, <A HREF="#P161">161</A>; author's home in, <A HREF="#P49">49</A>, <A HREF="#P161">161</A>, <A HREF="#P164">164</A>, +<A HREF="#P222">222</A> +</P> + +<P CLASS="index"> +Cinema, limitations of, <A HREF="#P186">186-187</A> +</P> + +<P CLASS="index"> +Civil War, American, Gladstone's attitude toward, <A HREF="#P143">143</A> +</P> + +<P CLASS="index"> +Clémenceau, <A HREF="#P139">139</A>, <A HREF="#P140">140</A> +</P> + +<P CLASS="index"> +Cleveland, Grover, portrait of, <A HREF="#P46">46</A> +</P> + +<P CLASS="index"> +Coliseum the, <A HREF="#P16">16</A> +</P> + +<P CLASS="index"> +Colvin, Sir Sidney, <A HREF="#P52">52</A> +</P> + +<P CLASS="index"> +Committee Room Fifteen, <A HREF="#P240">240</A>, <A HREF="#P241">241</A> +</P> + +<P CLASS="index"> +Comparison of English and American heating, <A HREF="#P12">12-13</A>; of French and +English, <A HREF="#P19">19</A>; of sea travel, <A HREF="#P3">3</A>, <A HREF="#P4">4-5</A> +</P> + +<P CLASS="index"> +Craig-y-Nos Castle (home of Patti), <A HREF="#P57">57</A>; beauty of, <A HREF="#P61">61</A>; description of, +<A HREF="#P71">71-72</A>; entertainments at, <A HREF="#P74">74</A>; evenings at, <A HREF="#P70">70</A>; guests at, <A HREF="#P58">58-59</A>, <A HREF="#P71">71</A>; +lantern show at, <A HREF="#P77">77</A>; life at, <A HREF="#P71">71</A>; meals at, <A HREF="#P60">60</A>, <A HREF="#P61">61</A>, <A HREF="#P67">67</A>; merriment at, +<A HREF="#P68">68</A>; orchestrion at, <A HREF="#P70">70</A>; party at, <A HREF="#P76">76-77</A>; salute to author from, <A HREF="#P78">78</A>; +theatre in, <A HREF="#P72">72</A>; treasures of, <A HREF="#P75">75</A>; view from, <A HREF="#P60">60</A> +</P> + +<P CLASS="index"> +Criterion (restaurant), <A HREF="#P16">16</A> +</P> + +<BR> + +<P CLASS="index"> +Davy, Sir Humphry, <A HREF="#P110">110</A> +</P> + +<P CLASS="index"> +De Keyser's Academy (Antwerp), <A HREF="#P45">45</A> +</P> + +<P CLASS="index"> +Deland, Margaret, on Tennyson Memorial Committee, <A HREF="#P128">128</A> +</P> + +<P CLASS="index"> +"Dimbola" (home of Watts, and later of Mrs. Cameron), <A HREF="#P115">115</A>, <A HREF="#P119">119</A> +</P> + +<P CLASS="index"> +Dollis Hill (Lord Aberdeen's home), <A HREF="#P153">153</A>, <A HREF="#P154">154</A> +</P> + +<P CLASS="index"> +"Dombey and Son", clothiers, <A HREF="#P1">1</A> +</P> + +<P CLASS="index"> +Drummond, Henry, <A HREF="#P170">170-184</A>; achievements of, <A HREF="#P178">178</A>, <A HREF="#P182">182</A>; anecdote of, +<A HREF="#P181">181-182</A>; capacity for friendship, <A HREF="#P171">171</A>; death, <A HREF="#P184">184</A>; description of, <A HREF="#P172">172</A>, +<A HREF="#P174">174</A>, <A HREF="#P176">176</A>; financial independence, <A HREF="#P179">179</A>; friendship with D. L. Moody, +<A HREF="#P171">171</A>, <A HREF="#P178">178</A>; geologist, <A HREF="#P174">174</A>; home, <A HREF="#P175">175</A>; lecturer at Lowell Institute, +Boston, <A HREF="#P175">175</A>; opinion of Gladstone, <A HREF="#P184">184</A>; optimism, <A HREF="#P181">181</A>; popularity of +books, <A HREF="#P171">171</A>, <A HREF="#P172">172</A>, <A HREF="#P174">174</A>; professor in Free Church College, at Glasgow, +<A HREF="#P174">174</A>; quoted, <A HREF="#P171">171</A>, <A HREF="#P172">172</A>, <A HREF="#P177">177</A>, <A HREF="#P179">179-181</A>, <A HREF="#P182">182-183</A>, <A HREF="#P184">184</A> +</P> + +<P CLASS="index"> +Drury Lane Theatre ("Old Drury"), <A HREF="#P16">16</A>, <A HREF="#P90">90</A> +</P> + +<P CLASS="index"> +Du Maurier, George, <A HREF="#P53">53</A> +</P> + +<BR> + +<P CLASS="index"> +Edinburth, <A HREF="#P79">79</A>, <A HREF="#P80">80</A>; University, <A HREF="#P85">85</A> +</P> + +<P CLASS="index"> +Electricity, first house in Britain lighted by, <A HREF="#P105">105</A>; transmission of, +<A HREF="#P102">102-103</A> +</P> + +<P CLASS="index"> +Emerson, Ralph Waldo, quoted, <A HREF="#P109">109</A> +</P> + +<P CLASS="index"> +Emin Pasha, <A HREF="#P205">205</A> +</P> + +<P CLASS="index"> +Empire (theatre), <A HREF="#P16">16</A> +</P> + +<P CLASS="index"> +English discomforts, <A HREF="#P13">13</A>; ills, <A HREF="#P13">13</A> +</P> + +<P CLASS="index"> +"Essays on Social Subjects" (by Blackie), <A HREF="#P86">86</A> +</P> + +<BR> + +<P CLASS="index"> +Fame, length of an actor's, <A HREF="#P186">186</A> +</P> + +<P CLASS="index"> +Faraday, Michael, discovery of, <A HREF="#P101">101</A> +</P> + +<P CLASS="index"> +Farrar, Dean, <A HREF="#P53">53</A> +</P> + +<P CLASS="index"> +Farringford (home of Lord Tennyson), <A HREF="#P114">114</A>; description of, <A HREF="#P119">119</A>, <A HREF="#P126">126</A>; +views from, <A HREF="#P120">120</A> +</P> + +<P CLASS="index"> +"Felix Mendelssohn's letters to Ignaz and Charlotte Moscheles", <A HREF="#P44">44</A> +</P> + +<P CLASS="index"> +Fenchurch Street Station (London), <A HREF="#P1">1</A>, <A HREF="#P7">7</A> +</P> + +<P CLASS="index"> +Field, Cyrus, connection with laying American cable, <A HREF="#P101">101</A> +</P> + +<P CLASS="index"> +Fields, James T. (publisher), <A HREF="#P130">130</A>, <A HREF="#P131">131</A> +</P> + +<P CLASS="index"> +Fields, Mrs. James T., on Tennyson Memorial Committee, <A HREF="#P128">128</A> +</P> + +<P CLASS="index"> +Fleet Street, <A HREF="#P8">8</A>, <A HREF="#P15">15</A>, <A HREF="#P26">26</A> +</P> + +<P CLASS="index"> +Flint Cottage, Box Hill (Meredith's home), <A HREF="#P223">223-224</A> +</P> + +<P CLASS="index"> +Floyth, Mrs., housekeeper to John Stuart Mill, <A HREF="#P7">7-8</A> +</P> + +<P CLASS="index"> +Foch, General, <A HREF="#P139">139</A> +</P> + +<P CLASS="index"> +Forbes-Robertson, Sir Johnston, <A HREF="#P16">16</A>, <A HREF="#P187">187</A> +</P> + +<P CLASS="index"> +Ford, Sheridan, pursuit of, by Whistler, <A HREF="#P160">160-161</A> +</P> + +<P CLASS="index"> +"Four Phases of Morals" (by Blackie), <A HREF="#P86">86</A> +</P> + +<P CLASS="index"> +France formerly considered England's potential enemy, <A HREF="#P252">252</A> +</P> + +<P CLASS="index"> +Free Church College, Glasgow, <A HREF="#P174">174</A> +</P> + +<P CLASS="index"> +French and English, comparison of, <A HREF="#P19">19</A> +</P> + +<P CLASS="index"> +Freshwater, Isle of Wight, <A HREF="#P117">117</A>, <A HREF="#P118">118</A>, <A HREF="#P122">122</A>; author's fondness for, <A HREF="#P114">114</A>, +<A HREF="#P115">115</A>; description of, <A HREF="#P114">114</A>; Lady Ritchie's home at, <A HREF="#P134">134-135</A>; life at, +<A HREF="#P136">136</A>; Tennyson's home at, <A HREF="#P114">114</A>; Walker's theory regarding its antiquity, +<A HREF="#P131">131-133</A>; Watts' home at, <A HREF="#P115">115</A> +</P> + +<P CLASS="index"> +Froude J. A. (historian), <A HREF="#P52">52</A> +</P> + +<BR> + +<P CLASS="index"> +Garibaldi at Farringford, <A HREF="#P116">116</A> +</P> + +<P CLASS="index"> +Garrick, fame of, <A HREF="#P185">185</A> +</P> + +<P CLASS="index"> +"Gentle Art of Making Enemies" (by Whistler), <A HREF="#P158">158</A>, <A HREF="#P159">159</A>, <A HREF="#P160">160</A>, <A HREF="#P161">161</A> +</P> + +<P CLASS="index"> +Gladstone, Rt. Hon. W. E., <A HREF="#P138">138-156</A>; achievements of, <A HREF="#P138">138</A>; attitude +toward American Civil War, <A HREF="#P143">143</A>, toward Irish question, <A HREF="#P143">143</A>; at Lord +Aberdeen's house, <A HREF="#P153">153-154</A>; as an actor, <A HREF="#P152">152</A>; author's opinion of, <A HREF="#P140">140</A>, +<A HREF="#P141">141-142</A>, <A HREF="#P144">144</A>, <A HREF="#P145">145</A>, <A HREF="#P148">148</A>, <A HREF="#P150">150</A>; Burns' story of, <A HREF="#P232">232-233</A>; Drummond's +opinion of, <A HREF="#P184">184</A>; eloquence of, <A HREF="#P138">138</A>, <A HREF="#P140">140</A>, <A HREF="#P141">141-142</A>, <A HREF="#P156">156</A>; energy of, <A HREF="#P145">145</A>, +<A HREF="#P150">150</A>; face of, <A HREF="#P148">148</A>, <A HREF="#P151">151</A>; influence of, <A HREF="#P138">138</A>, <A HREF="#P151">151</A>, <A HREF="#P155">155</A>; integrity of, <A HREF="#P139">139</A>; +interest in causes, <A HREF="#P143">143</A>, <A HREF="#P153">153</A>; leadership, <A HREF="#P141">141</A>, <A HREF="#P151">151</A>, <A HREF="#P153">153</A>; letter to +Patti, <A HREF="#P62">62-63</A>; object of adulation and hatred, <A HREF="#P142">142-143</A>; opinion of +Turks, <A HREF="#P138">138</A>; power of concentration, <A HREF="#P152">152</A>, <A HREF="#P153">153</A>; quotation from Morley's +"Life" of, <A HREF="#P141">141</A>; quoted, <A HREF="#P146">146-147</A>, <A HREF="#P150">150</A>; tribute at Manchester, <A HREF="#P149">149-150</A>; +unsurpassed as a talker, <A HREF="#P138">138</A> +</P> + +<P CLASS="index"> +Glasgow University, <A HREF="#P97">97</A>, <A HREF="#P99">99</A> +</P> + +<P CLASS="index"> +Gordon, Gen. C. G., as a fighter, <A HREF="#P147">147</A> +</P> + +<P CLASS="index"> +Gounod, portrait of, <A HREF="#P46">46</A> +</P> + +<P CLASS="index"> +Grand Hotel, <A HREF="#P15">15</A> +</P> + +<P CLASS="index"> +"Great Britain and Rome" (pamphlet by Capel), <A HREF="#P38">38</A> +</P> + +<P CLASS="index"> +Great Central Hotel, <A HREF="#P16">16</A> +</P> + +<P CLASS="index"> +<I>Great Eastern</I> (cable-laying ship), <A HREF="#P112">112</A> +</P> + +<P CLASS="index"> +Greeley, Horace, handwriting of, <A HREF="#P188">188-189</A> +</P> + +<P CLASS="index"> +Grove, Sir George, <A HREF="#P53">53</A> +</P> + +<BR> + +<P CLASS="index"> +Hambourg, Mark, description of, <A HREF="#P47">47-48</A> +</P> + +<P CLASS="index"> +Hanway, Jonas, <A HREF="#P15">15</A> +</P> + +<P CLASS="index"> +Hare, John, <A HREF="#P16">16</A>, <A HREF="#P53">53</A>, <A HREF="#P186">186</A> +</P> + +<P CLASS="index"> +Harrison, Frederic, <A HREF="#P52">52</A> +</P> + +<P CLASS="index"> +Harte, Bret, <A HREF="#P53">53</A>, <A HREF="#P217">217</A> +</P> + +<P CLASS="index"> +Hats, <A HREF="#P15">15</A> +</P> + +<P CLASS="index"> +Hay market Theatre, <A HREF="#P16">16</A> +</P> + +<P CLASS="index"> +Haythornthwaite, Father Peter, friend of Tennyson, <A HREF="#P122">122</A>, <A HREF="#P126">126</A> +</P> + +<P CLASS="index"> +Heating, comparison of English and American, <A HREF="#P12">12-13</A> +</P> + +<P CLASS="index"> +Helmholtz, quoted, <A HREF="#P110">110</A> +</P> + +<P CLASS="index"> +Heyermans (artist), <A HREF="#P45">45</A> +</P> + +<P CLASS="index"> +Hippodrome, <A HREF="#P16">16</A> +</P> + +<P CLASS="index"> +Holborn Restaurant, <A HREF="#P16">16</A> +</P> + +<P CLASS="index"> +Holborn Viaduct, lighting on, <A HREF="#P9">9</A> +</P> + +<P CLASS="index"> +Holmes, Doctor Oliver Wendell, on Tennyson Memorial Committee, <A HREF="#P128">128</A> +</P> + +<P CLASS="index"> +Holyoake, George Jacob, portrait of, <A HREF="#P46">46</A> +</P> + +<P CLASS="index"> +Home Rule cause (Ireland), <A HREF="#P251">251</A>, <A HREF="#P252">252</A>, <A HREF="#P253">253</A>, <A HREF="#P256">256</A> +</P> + +<P CLASS="index"> +"Homer and the Iliad" (by Blackie), <A HREF="#P86">86</A> +</P> + +<P CLASS="index"> +<I>Hooper</I> (cable-laying ship), <A HREF="#P112">112</A> +</P> + +<P CLASS="index"> +Hotels, <A HREF="#P15">15-16</A> +</P> + +<P CLASS="index"> +Houghton, H. O., on Tennyson Memorial Committee, <A HREF="#P128">128</A> +</P> + +<P CLASS="index"> +Howe, Julia Ward, on Tennyson Memorial Committee, <A HREF="#P128">128</A> +</P> + +<P CLASS="index"> +Hughes-Stanton, H., R.A.; home of, <A HREF="#P36">36</A> +</P> + +<P CLASS="index"> +Hunt, Holman, <A HREF="#P52">52</A>, <A HREF="#P216">216</A> +</P> + +<BR> + +<P CLASS="index"> +"In Bohemia with George du Maurier" (by Moscheles), <A HREF="#P44">44</A> +</P> + +<P CLASS="index"> +Individuals and the masses, <A HREF="#P197">197</A> +</P> + +<P CLASS="index"> +Ireland, argument for majority rule in, <A HREF="#P252">252-253</A>; attitude in World War, +<A HREF="#P251">251</A>; author's views on, <A HREF="#P250">250-257</A>; conditions in, <A HREF="#P250">250</A>; exempted from +conscription, <A HREF="#P251">251</A>; Home Rule in, <A HREF="#P251">251</A>, <A HREF="#P252">252</A>; ideals of, <A HREF="#P253">253</A>; parties in, +<A HREF="#P254">254</A>; racial differences with Great Britain, <A HREF="#P252">252</A>; vital part of +England's political organism, <A HREF="#P252">252</A> +</P> + +<P CLASS="index"> +Irish question, <A HREF="#P138">138</A>, <A HREF="#P143">143</A>; ignorance of Americans concerning, <A HREF="#P247">247</A>, <A HREF="#P249">249</A>, +<A HREF="#P250">250</A>, <A HREF="#P254">254</A> +</P> + +<P CLASS="index"> +Irving, Sir Henry, <A HREF="#P16">16</A>, <A HREF="#P52">52</A>, <A HREF="#P185">185-204</A>; air of authority, <A HREF="#P201">201</A>; +achievements, <A HREF="#P191">191</A>; appeal to the eye, <A HREF="#P192">192</A>; as actor-manager, <A HREF="#P193">193</A>, <A HREF="#P194">194</A>; +at Drury Lane, <A HREF="#P190">190</A>; author's opinion of acting, <A HREF="#P191">191</A>, <A HREF="#P192">192</A>, <A HREF="#P193">193</A>; burial +at Westminster Abbey, <A HREF="#P190">190</A>; death, <A HREF="#P188">188</A>, <A HREF="#P190">190</A>, <A HREF="#P204">204</A>; delineation of +character, <A HREF="#P192">192</A>; first-night customs, <A HREF="#P204">204</A>; first visit to America, <A HREF="#P46">46</A>; +handwriting, <A HREF="#P188">188</A>, <A HREF="#P189">189</A>; hospitality, <A HREF="#P202">202</A>; in "Merchant of Venice", <A HREF="#P193">193</A>, +<A HREF="#P194">194</A>, <A HREF="#P195">195</A>, <A HREF="#P198">198</A>; in private life, <A HREF="#P201">201-202</A>; limitations, <A HREF="#P191">191</A>; loss of +popularity, <A HREF="#P190">190</A>; loyalty of public, <A HREF="#P190">190-191</A>, <A HREF="#P197">197</A>; management of Lyceum +Theatre, <A HREF="#P190">190</A>; mannerisms, <A HREF="#P188">188</A>, <A HREF="#P191">191</A>, <A HREF="#P194">194</A>, <A HREF="#P199">199-201</A>; national figure, <A HREF="#P188">188</A>; +place as an actor, <A HREF="#P187">187-188</A>, <A HREF="#P204">204</A>; signature, <A HREF="#P189">189</A>; supper parties, <A HREF="#P203">203-204</A> +</P> + +<P CLASS="index"> +Israels, portrait of, <A HREF="#P46">46</A> +</P> + +<BR> + +<P CLASS="index"> +Jefferson, Joseph, <A HREF="#P186">186</A> +</P> + +<P CLASS="index"> +Jephson (Stanley's officer), <A HREF="#P209">209-211</A> +</P> + +<P CLASS="index"> +Jewett, Sarah Orne, on Tennyson Memorial Committee, <A HREF="#P128">128</A> +</P> + +<P CLASS="index"> +Joachim, violinist, friend of Moscheles, <A HREF="#P45">45</A> +</P> + +<P CLASS="index"> +Joule, James Prescott, <A HREF="#P110">110</A>; appreciated by Kelvin, <A HREF="#P111">111</A> +</P> + +<P CLASS="index"> +Journalist, as a party man, <A HREF="#P146">146</A> +</P> + +<P CLASS="index"> +Jowett, Professor, <A HREF="#P53">53</A> +</P> + +<BR> + +<P CLASS="index"> +Kelvin, Lord, <A HREF="#P96">96-113</A>; achievements of, <A HREF="#P99">99</A>, <A HREF="#P112">112</A>; acquires White's +business, <A HREF="#P100">100</A>; addresses Royal Society in London, <A HREF="#P104">104-105</A>; ancestry, +<A HREF="#P98">98</A>; appointed professor of Natural Philosophy, at Glasgow University, +<A HREF="#P97">97</A>; character of, <A HREF="#P97">97</A>, <A HREF="#P98">98</A>, <A HREF="#P108">108</A>, <A HREF="#P112">112</A>; chooses title, <A HREF="#P99">99</A>; early days, <A HREF="#P98">98</A>; +energy of, <A HREF="#P96">96-97</A>, <A HREF="#P113">113</A>; enters university at ten, <A HREF="#P97">97</A>; fiftieth +anniversary at Glasgow, <A HREF="#P109">109</A>; first published papers, <A HREF="#P110">110</A>; fondness for +asking questions, <A HREF="#P108">108-109</A>; greatest master of natural science of 19th +century, <A HREF="#P97">97</A>, <A HREF="#P107">107</A>; installs telephone in home, <A HREF="#P106">106</A>; introduces electric +lighting in home, <A HREF="#P105">105</A>; inventions of, <A HREF="#P100">100</A>, <A HREF="#P106">106</A>; lameness of, <A HREF="#P103">103</A>, <A HREF="#P108">108</A>; +made a peer, <A HREF="#P99">99</A>; method of conducting classes, <A HREF="#P103">103-104</A>, <A HREF="#P108">108</A>; outlines +plan of boy's education, <A HREF="#P97">97-98</A>; practicality of, <A HREF="#P99">99-100</A>, <A HREF="#P103">103-104</A>, <A HREF="#P105">105</A>; +prophecy regarding electricity, <A HREF="#P102">102-103</A>; quoted, <A HREF="#P110">110</A>, <A HREF="#P112">112</A>, regarding +energy, <A HREF="#P111">111</A>; Sir William Ramsay's opinion of, <A HREF="#P103">103-104</A>; study of, <A HREF="#P112">112</A>; +theory of existence of organic life, <A HREF="#P107">107</A>; typical day of, <A HREF="#P113">113</A>; work on +Atlantic cables, <A HREF="#P100">100</A>; yachtsman and master navigator, <A HREF="#P106">106</A> +</P> + +<P CLASS="index"> +Kendals, the, <A HREF="#P16">16</A>, <A HREF="#P186">186</A> +</P> + +<P CLASS="index"> +Kinglake, A. W., <A HREF="#P52">52</A> +</P> + +<P CLASS="index"> +Kingsway, <A HREF="#P11">11</A> +</P> + +<P CLASS="index"> +Kipling, Rudyard, <A HREF="#P17">17</A> +</P> + +<P CLASS="index"> +Knight, Professor (of St. Andrews University), <A HREF="#P53">53</A> +</P> + +<P CLASS="index"> +Knowles, James, of Nineteenth Century, designer of Tennyson's home at +Aldworth, <A HREF="#P125">125</A> +</P> + +<BR> + +<P CLASS="index"> +Lablache, singer, friend of Moscheles, <A HREF="#P45">45</A> +</P> + +<P CLASS="index"> +<I>Lalla Rookh</I>, Lord Kelvin's yacht, <A HREF="#P106">106</A> +</P> + +<P CLASS="index"> +"Language and Literature of the Scottish Highlands" (by Blackie), <A HREF="#P87">87</A> +</P> + +<P CLASS="index"> +Lathrop, George Parsons, Boston editor, <A HREF="#P28">28</A> +</P> + +<P CLASS="index"> +Law Courts, the, <A HREF="#P15">15</A> +</P> + +<P CLASS="index"> +Leadenhall Street (London), <A HREF="#P1">1</A>, <A HREF="#P2">2</A> +</P> + +<P CLASS="index"> +League of Nations, <A HREF="#P140">140</A> +</P> + +<P CLASS="index"> +Lecky (historian), <A HREF="#P52">52</A> +</P> + +<P CLASS="index"> +Leighton, Lord, <A HREF="#P53">53</A> +</P> + +<P CLASS="index"> +"Letters, Poems, and Pensées" (Barbour), <A HREF="#P92">92</A> +</P> + +<P CLASS="index"> +"Life" of Gladstone, Morley's, quoted, <A HREF="#P141">141</A> +</P> + +<P CLASS="index"> +Li Hung Chang, as a questioner, <A HREF="#P108">108-109</A> +</P> + +<P CLASS="index"> +London, architecture of, <A HREF="#P10">10-13</A>; charm of, <A HREF="#P10">10</A>, <A HREF="#P13">13</A>; description of, <A HREF="#P1">1</A>, <A HREF="#P2">2</A>, +<A HREF="#P10">10</A>; drawbacks, <A HREF="#P9">9</A>; Esperanto Club of, <A HREF="#P48">48</A>; "finest site in Europe", <A HREF="#P11">11</A>; +former leisure of travel in, <A HREF="#P13">13-14</A>; hats in, <A HREF="#P15">15</A>; hotels in, <A HREF="#P15">15-16</A>; +improvements of, <A HREF="#P11">11</A>; interiors of buildings, <A HREF="#P12">12-13</A>; in the late +seventies, <A HREF="#P9">9-17</A>; lighting of, <A HREF="#P9">9</A>; most livable place in world, <A HREF="#P9">9</A>; music +halls, <A HREF="#P16">16</A>; public buildings of, <A HREF="#P11">11</A>; regiments in, <A HREF="#P17">17</A>; restaurants, <A HREF="#P16">16</A>; +street cries in, <A HREF="#P14">14</A>; theatre crowds, <A HREF="#P194">194</A>, <A HREF="#P195">195-196</A>, <A HREF="#P197">197</A>; ugliness of +modern, <A HREF="#P11">11</A>; views in, <A HREF="#P12">12</A>; writers in, <A HREF="#P16">16-17</A> +</P> + +<P CLASS="index"> +London Bridge, <A HREF="#P17">17</A> +</P> + +<P CLASS="index"> +"London Letters" of author, <A HREF="#P29">29</A>, <A HREF="#P30">30</A> +</P> + +<P CLASS="index"> +Lowell Institute, Boston, Drummond lectures at, <A HREF="#P175">175</A> +</P> + +<P CLASS="index"> +Lubbock, Sir John (Lord Avebury), <A HREF="#P52">52</A> +</P> + +<P CLASS="index"> +Lyceum Theatre, <A HREF="#P187">187</A>, <A HREF="#P202">202</A>; author's experiences in attending, <A HREF="#P194">194</A>, +<A HREF="#P195">195-196</A>; great productions at, <A HREF="#P193">193</A>, <A HREF="#P194">194</A>, <A HREF="#P200">200</A>; management of Irving, <A HREF="#P190">190</A> +</P> + +<BR> + +<P CLASS="index"> +Mackenzie, Sir Morell, description of Patti's throat, <A HREF="#P69">69</A> +</P> + +<P CLASS="index"> +Macmillan (publisher), <A HREF="#P53">53</A> +</P> + +<P CLASS="index"> +Maiden's Croft, Farringford, Isle of Wight, <A HREF="#P120">120</A> +</P> + +<P CLASS="index"> +Malibran, singer, friend of Moscheles, <A HREF="#P45">45</A> +</P> + +<P CLASS="index"> +Mann, Tom, portrait of, <A HREF="#P46">46</A> +</P> + +<P CLASS="index"> +Manning, Cardinal, <A HREF="#P39">39</A> +</P> + +<P CLASS="index"> +Marchmont Street (London), <A HREF="#P7">7</A> +</P> + +<P CLASS="index"> +Maris (artist), <A HREF="#P45">45</A> +</P> + +<P CLASS="index"> +Martin, Sir Theodore, <A HREF="#P53">53</A> +</P> + +<P CLASS="index"> +Masson, Professor, <A HREF="#P53">53</A> +</P> + +<P CLASS="index"> +Mazzini, portrait of, <A HREF="#P46">46</A> +</P> + +<P CLASS="index"> +Memorial to Lord Tennyson, <A HREF="#P127">127-129</A>; American contributors to, <A HREF="#P128">128</A>; +inscription on, <A HREF="#P128">128</A>, <A HREF="#P129">129</A> +</P> + +<P CLASS="index"> +Mendelssohn, friendship with Moscheles, <A HREF="#P43">43</A>, <A HREF="#P45">45</A> +</P> + +<P CLASS="index"> +Meredith, George, <A HREF="#P16">16</A>, <A HREF="#P52">52</A>, <A HREF="#P222">222-239</A>; conversation with John Burns and +author, <A HREF="#P229">229-234</A>; day with, <A HREF="#P224">224-234</A>, <A HREF="#P238">238</A>; description of, <A HREF="#P224">224-225</A>, +<A HREF="#P234">234-236</A>; publisher's reader, <A HREF="#P227">227</A>, <A HREF="#P236">236-237</A>; sensitiveness, <A HREF="#P236">236</A>; strength +of perception, <A HREF="#P235">235</A>; tribute to Thomas Bailey Aldrich, <A HREF="#P227">227</A>; voice, <A HREF="#P225">225</A>, +<A HREF="#P234">234</A> +</P> + +<P CLASS="index"> +Metropole (hotel), <A HREF="#P15">15</A> +</P> + +<P CLASS="index"> +Mifflin, George H., on Tennyson Memorial Committee, <A HREF="#P128">128</A> +</P> + +<P CLASS="index"> +Moody, D. L. (revivalist), <A HREF="#P171">171</A>; tour with Sankey and Drummond, <A HREF="#P178">178</A> +</P> + +<P CLASS="index"> +Morland, George, <A HREF="#P118">118</A> +</P> + +<P CLASS="index"> +Moscheles, Charlotte, portrait of, <A HREF="#P46">46</A> +</P> + +<P CLASS="index"> +Moscheles, Felix, <A HREF="#P42">42-50</A>; attainments of, <A HREF="#P43">43</A>, <A HREF="#P46">46</A>; birth, <A HREF="#P43">43</A>; celebrated +friends of, <A HREF="#P45">45</A>; death, <A HREF="#P43">43</A>; fellow students, <A HREF="#P45">45</A>; friendship with +Browning, <A HREF="#P42">42</A>, <A HREF="#P44">44</A>, <A HREF="#P47">47</A>, <A HREF="#P50">50</A>; godson of Mendelssohn, <A HREF="#P43">43</A>; home in Cadogan +Gardens, <A HREF="#P42">42</A>, <A HREF="#P46">46</A>, in Elm Park Road, <A HREF="#P47">47</A>; hospitality of, <A HREF="#P47">47</A>, <A HREF="#P50">50</A>; interest +in Esperanto, <A HREF="#P48">48</A>; literary work of, <A HREF="#P44">44-45</A>; meeting with Du Maurier, <A HREF="#P45">45</A>, +with Stepniak, <A HREF="#P49">49</A>; moved to Leipzig, <A HREF="#P45">45</A>; "Pictures with a Purpose", +<A HREF="#P46">46-47</A>; portraits painted by, <A HREF="#P46">46</A>; study in Antwerp, <A HREF="#P45">45</A>, in Paris, <A HREF="#P45">45</A>; +Sunday afternoons with, <A HREF="#P44">44</A>, <A HREF="#P49">49-50</A>; visited America with Irving and +Terry, <A HREF="#P46">46</A>; water colours of, <A HREF="#P46">46</A> +</P> + +<P CLASS="index"> +Moscheles, Ignaz, <A HREF="#P43">43</A>; friendship with Mendelssohn, <A HREF="#P43">43</A>, <A HREF="#P45">45</A>; moved to +Leipzig, <A HREF="#P45">45</A> +</P> + +<P CLASS="index"> +Muller, Max, <A HREF="#P52">52</A> +</P> + +<P CLASS="index"> +Murray, Henry, disappointment of, <A HREF="#P6">6</A>; in London, <A HREF="#P7">7</A>, <A HREF="#P39">39</A>; on board the +<I>Alsatia</I>, <A HREF="#P5">5</A> +</P> + +<P CLASS="index"> +Murray, John, <A HREF="#P53">53</A> +</P> + +<P CLASS="index"> +"Musa Burschicosa" (by Blackie), <A HREF="#P87">87</A> +</P> + +<BR> + +<P CLASS="index"> +National Gallery, <A HREF="#P10">10</A> +</P> + +<P CLASS="index"> +Nationalist Party, <A HREF="#P250">250</A>, <A HREF="#P251">251</A>, <A HREF="#P253">253</A>, <A HREF="#P254">254</A>; death of, <A HREF="#P250">250</A>; speeches of, <A HREF="#P250">250</A> +</P> + +<P CLASS="index"> +"Natural Law in the Spiritual World" (by Professor Drummond), <A HREF="#P172">172</A>, +<A HREF="#P173">173-174</A> +</P> + +<P CLASS="index"> +Neilson, Adelaide, <A HREF="#P16">16</A> +</P> + +<P CLASS="index"> +Nelson (Stanley's officer), <A HREF="#P209">209</A>, <A HREF="#P211">211</A> +</P> + +<P CLASS="index"> +Newport (Isle of Wight), <A HREF="#P114">114</A> +</P> + +<P CLASS="index"> +<I>New York Tribune</I>, appeal for Tennyson Memorial in, <A HREF="#P128">128</A>; author's +article in, <A HREF="#P49">49</A> +</P> + +<P CLASS="index"> +Niagara, plan to harness, <A HREF="#P102">102</A> +</P> + +<P CLASS="index"> +<I>Ninetetnth Century</I>, <A HREF="#P125">125</A> +</P> + +<P CLASS="index"> +Normandy, cottages of, <A HREF="#P23">23</A>; ducks of, <A HREF="#P22">22-24</A>; hospitality of, <A HREF="#P21">21-22</A>, <A HREF="#P24">24</A>, +<A HREF="#P25">25</A>; peasants of, <A HREF="#P23">23</A> +</P> + +<P CLASS="index"> +Northumberland Ave., London, <A HREF="#P15">15</A> +</P> + +<P CLASS="index"> +Norton, Professor Charles Eliot, on Tennyson Memorial Committee, <A HREF="#P128">128</A> +</P> + +<BR> + +<P CLASS="index"> +Old Adelaide Gallery (Gatti's restaurant), <A HREF="#P16">16</A> +</P> + +<P CLASS="index"> +"On Beauty" (by Blackie), <A HREF="#P87">87</A> +</P> + +<P CLASS="index"> +"One of Our Conquerors" (Meredith), <A HREF="#P227">227</A> +</P> + +<P CLASS="index"> +O'Reilly, John Boyle, <A HREF="#P247">247</A> +</P> + +<P CLASS="index"> +Organic life, Kelvin's hypothesis concerning, <A HREF="#P107">107</A> +</P> + +<P CLASS="index"> +O'Shea, Captain (divorce case of), <A HREF="#P240">240</A>, <A HREF="#P248">248</A>, <A HREF="#P256">256</A> +</P> + +<P CLASS="index"> +"Ouida", <A HREF="#P17">17</A> +</P> + +<P CLASS="index"> +"Our Boys", run of, <A HREF="#P16">16</A> +</P> + +<BR> + +<P CLASS="index"> +Paget, Sir James, <A HREF="#P53">53</A> +</P> + +<P CLASS="index"> +Palazzo Rezzonico, Venice, <A HREF="#P51">51</A> +</P> + +<P CLASS="index"> +Paris, Election at, <A HREF="#P261">261</A>, <A HREF="#P264">264-266</A>, <A HREF="#P271">271-272</A> +</P> + +<P CLASS="index"> +Parke (Stanley's officer), <A HREF="#P209">209</A>, <A HREF="#P211">211</A> +</P> + +<P CLASS="index"> +Parliament Buildings, <A HREF="#P10">10</A> +</P> + +<P CLASS="index"> +Parnell, Charles Stewart, <A HREF="#P138">138</A>, <A HREF="#P143">143</A>, <A HREF="#P240">240-274</A>; characteristics, <A HREF="#P257">257-258</A>; +eludes author, <A HREF="#P242">242-245</A>; elusiveness of, <A HREF="#P242">242</A>, <A HREF="#P246">246</A>; love affair, <A HREF="#P256">256</A>; +"mystery" of, <A HREF="#P241">241</A>, <A HREF="#P257">257</A>; object of, <A HREF="#P255">255</A>; Parliamentary leader of Irish, +<A HREF="#P241">241</A>, <A HREF="#P252">252</A>, <A HREF="#P253">253</A>; tastes, <A HREF="#P258">258</A>; wife's book about, <A HREF="#P256">256-257</A> +</P> + +<P CLASS="index"> +Parnell Commission, <A HREF="#P240">240</A> +</P> + +<P CLASS="index"> +Patti, Mme. Adelina (Baroness Cederström), <A HREF="#P57">57-78</A>; appreciation of +Scalchi and Annie Louise Carey, <A HREF="#P77">77</A>; ancestry, <A HREF="#P66">66</A>; as a linguist, <A HREF="#P61">61-62</A>; +care of voice, <A HREF="#P69">69-70</A>; collection of photographs, <A HREF="#P75">75</A>; description of, +<A HREF="#P58">58</A>, <A HREF="#P59">59</A>, <A HREF="#P64">64-65</A>; first appearance before royalty, <A HREF="#P65">65</A>; generosity of, <A HREF="#P76">76</A>; +gifts to, <A HREF="#P75">75-76</A>; illness, <A HREF="#P67">67</A>; letter from Gladstone, <A HREF="#P62">62-63</A>; London +début at Covent Garden in "La Somnambula", <A HREF="#P65">65</A>; love of theatre, <A HREF="#P74">74</A>; +modesty of, <A HREF="#P64">64</A>, <A HREF="#P66">66</A>; proudest experience, <A HREF="#P63">63-64</A>; Rothschild's dinner to, +<A HREF="#P63">63</A>, <A HREF="#P66">66</A>; singing of, <A HREF="#P68">68</A>, <A HREF="#P70">70-71</A>, <A HREF="#P72">72</A>, <A HREF="#P73">73</A>; tribute from Prince of Wales +(Edward VII), <A HREF="#P63">63-64</A> +</P> + +<P CLASS="index"> +Pearson, J. L., designer of Tennyson Memorial, <A HREF="#P128">128</A> +</P> + +<P CLASS="index"> +Penwylt, Wales, <A HREF="#P57">57</A> +</P> + +<P CLASS="index"> +Phoenician remains at Weston Manor, <A HREF="#P133">133-134</A>; route to Cornwall through +Freshwater, <A HREF="#P132">132-133</A> +</P> + +<P CLASS="index"> +"Pinafore", run of, <A HREF="#P16">16</A> +</P> + +<P CLASS="index"> +Pinero, Sir Arthur, <A HREF="#P16">16</A> +</P> + +<P CLASS="index"> +Plays and players, <A HREF="#P16">16</A> +</P> + +<P CLASS="index"> +Plunket, Baron, <A HREF="#P186">186</A> +</P> + +<P CLASS="index"> +"Poetical Tracts" (by Blackie), <A HREF="#P87">87</A> +</P> + +<P CLASS="index"> +Politics, author's views on, <A HREF="#P139">139</A>, <A HREF="#P140">140</A>, <A HREF="#P145">145-146</A>, <A HREF="#P155">155</A> +</P> + +<P CLASS="index"> +Portman Rooms, London, <A HREF="#P216">216</A> +</P> + +<P CLASS="index"> +Poynter, Sir E. J., <A HREF="#P52">52</A> +</P> + +<P CLASS="index"> +Prince of Wales' Theatre, <A HREF="#P16">16</A> +</P> + +<P CLASS="index"> +Prince of Wales (Edward VII), tribute to Patti, <A HREF="#P63">63-64</A> +</P> + +<P CLASS="index"> +<I>Punch</I>, <A HREF="#P162">162</A>, <A HREF="#P262">262</A> +</P> + +<BR> + +<P CLASS="index"> +Queen Square, London, author's rooms rear of, <A HREF="#P7">7</A>, <A HREF="#P8">8</A> +</P> + +<P CLASS="index"> +Queen's Hall, <A HREF="#P16">16</A> +</P> + +<P CLASS="index"> +"Quill Club", <A HREF="#P8">8</A> +</P> + +<BR> + +<P CLASS="index"> +Rachel, fame of, <A HREF="#P185">185</A> +</P> + +<P CLASS="index"> +Ramsay, Sir William, <A HREF="#P107">107</A>; opinion of Lord Kelvin, <A HREF="#P103">103-104</A> +</P> + +<P CLASS="index"> +Raven-Hill, L., cartoonist for <I>Punch</I>, <A HREF="#P262">262</A>; draws Boulanger, <A HREF="#P267">267</A>, <A HREF="#P270">270</A>, +<A HREF="#P271">271</A>; illustrated author's articles, <A HREF="#P262">262-263</A>; work of, <A HREF="#P263">263</A> +</P> + +<P CLASS="index"> +Receptions, Irving's "first-night", <A HREF="#P203">203-204</A> +</P> + +<P CLASS="index"> +Redmond, John, on Ireland, <A HREF="#P250">250</A>; power of, <A HREF="#P253">253</A> +</P> + +<P CLASS="index"> +Regiments, dress of, <A HREF="#P17">17</A> +</P> + +<P CLASS="index"> +Restaurants, <A HREF="#P16">16</A> +</P> + +<P CLASS="index"> +Rice, James, <A HREF="#P17">17</A> +</P> + +<P CLASS="index"> +Ritchie, Lady, charm of, <A HREF="#P136">136-137</A>; death of, <A HREF="#P134">134</A>; escape from German +bomb, <A HREF="#P135">135</A>; home in Isle of Wight, <A HREF="#P134">134-135</A>; quoted, <A HREF="#P135">135</A>; stories of +Tennyson, <A HREF="#P136">136</A> +</P> + +<P CLASS="index"> +Ritz, Hotel, <A HREF="#P16">16</A> +</P> + +<P CLASS="index"> +Roche, Jeffrey, <A HREF="#P247">247</A>, <A HREF="#P250">250</A>; learns about Parnell from author, <A HREF="#P247">247-249</A> +</P> + +<P CLASS="index"> +Rochester, <A HREF="#P18">18</A> +</P> + +<P CLASS="index"> +Rodin, Auguste, <A HREF="#P30">30</A>; first article about, <A HREF="#P31">31</A>; gift to the author, <A HREF="#P31">31</A> +</P> + +<P CLASS="index"> +Rothschild, Alfred, dinner to Patti, <A HREF="#P63">63</A>, <A HREF="#P66">66</A> +</P> + +<P CLASS="index"> +Rouen, <A HREF="#P24">24</A> +</P> + +<P CLASS="index"> +Royal Academic Institute of Belfast, <A HREF="#P99">99</A> +</P> + +<P CLASS="index"> +Royal Academy, <A HREF="#P30">30</A> +</P> + +<P CLASS="index"> +Royal Society in London, Lord Kelvin's address to, <A HREF="#P104">104-105</A> +</P> + +<P CLASS="index"> +Rubinstein, portrait of, <A HREF="#P46">46</A> +</P> + +<P CLASS="index"> +Rumford, Count, <A HREF="#P110">110</A> +</P> + +<BR> + +<P CLASS="index"> +St. Ange, Raoul de, author's acquaintance with, <A HREF="#P20">20-27</A>; visit to +Normandy with, <A HREF="#P20">20-25</A> +</P> + +<P CLASS="index"> +St. Boniface Down, Isle of Wight, <A HREF="#P120">120</A> +</P> + +<P CLASS="index"> +St. James Hall, <A HREF="#P16">16</A> +</P> + +<P CLASS="index"> +St. James Restaurant, <A HREF="#P16">16</A> +</P> + +<P CLASS="index"> +St. Paul's Cathedral, <A HREF="#P10">10</A> +</P> + +<P CLASS="index"> +Sala, George Augustus, <A HREF="#P32">32</A>, <A HREF="#P33">33-34</A>; conversation with author, <A HREF="#P32">32-34</A> +</P> + +<P CLASS="index"> +Salisbury, Lord, <A HREF="#P143">143</A>, <A HREF="#P240">240</A>; mistake of, <A HREF="#P143">143-144</A>; tribute to Lord Kelvin, +<A HREF="#P106">106-107</A> +</P> + +<P CLASS="index"> +Sankey, Ira (revivalist), <A HREF="#P178">178</A>; tour with Moody and Drummond, <A HREF="#P178">178</A> +</P> + +<P CLASS="index"> +Sarasate, portrait of, <A HREF="#P46">46</A> +</P> + +<P CLASS="index"> +Savoy Hotel, <A HREF="#P15">15</A> +</P> + +<P CLASS="index"> +Scala (theatre), <A HREF="#P16">16</A> +</P> + +<P CLASS="index"> +Scarsdale Lodge (Kensington), famous tenants of, <A HREF="#P36">36</A> +</P> + +<P CLASS="index"> +"Scottish Songs" (by Blackie), <A HREF="#P87">87</A> +</P> + +<P CLASS="index"> +Separatist Cause (of Ireland), <A HREF="#P253">253</A> +</P> + +<P CLASS="index"> +Serpentine Bridge (Hyde Park), <A HREF="#P12">12</A> +</P> + +<P CLASS="index"> +Shaftsbury Ave., <A HREF="#P11">11</A> +</P> + +<P CLASS="index"> +Siddons, Mrs., fame of, <A HREF="#P185">185</A> +</P> + +<P CLASS="index"> +Sinn Feiners, <A HREF="#P254">254</A> +</P> + +<P CLASS="index"> +"Siphon Recorder", invented by Lord Kelvin, <A HREF="#P100">100</A>, <A HREF="#P101">101</A> +</P> + +<P CLASS="index"> +Smalley, George W., appeal for Tennyson Memorial, <A HREF="#P128">128</A> +</P> + +<P CLASS="index"> +Smith, George Murray (Browning's publisher), <A HREF="#P53">53</A> +</P> + +<P CLASS="index"> +"Songs and Legends of Ancient Greece" (by Blackie), <A HREF="#P87">87</A> +</P> + +<P CLASS="index"> +"Songs of Religion and Life" (by Blackie), <A HREF="#P87">87</A> +</P> + +<P CLASS="index"> +Sothern, E. A., <A HREF="#P16">16</A>; homes of, <A HREF="#P36">36</A>; hospitality of, <A HREF="#P36">36</A>, <A HREF="#P37">37</A> +</P> + +<P CLASS="index"> +Spottiswoode (publisher), <A HREF="#P53">53</A> +</P> + +<P CLASS="index"> +Stairs (Stanley's officer), <A HREF="#P209">209</A>, <A HREF="#P211">211</A> +</P> + +<P CLASS="index"> +Stanley, Sir Henry M., <A HREF="#P205">205-221</A>; address at St. James Hall, quoted, +<A HREF="#P209">209-210</A>, <A HREF="#P211">211-212</A>; "American dinner" to, <A HREF="#P212">212-220</A>; character of, <A HREF="#P205">205</A>; +experience with an election crowd, <A HREF="#P220">220-221</A>; famous march into Africa, +<A HREF="#P209">209</A>, <A HREF="#P210">210</A>; member of Parliament, <A HREF="#P220">220</A>, <A HREF="#P221">221</A>; portrait of, <A HREF="#P46">46</A>; quoted, +<A HREF="#P217">217-219</A>, <A HREF="#P220">220-221</A>; return to London, <A HREF="#P205">205-207</A>; temper of, <A HREF="#P205">205</A>; tribute to +his officers, <A HREF="#P211">211</A> +</P> + +<P CLASS="index"> +Stephen, Sir James Fitzjames, <A HREF="#P53">53</A> +</P> + +<P CLASS="index"> +Stephen, Leslie, <A HREF="#P53">53</A> +</P> + +<P CLASS="index"> +Stephenson, Robert, <A HREF="#P100">100</A> +</P> + +<P CLASS="index"> +Stepniak, description of, <A HREF="#P49">49</A>; meeting with Moscheles, <A HREF="#P49">49</A>; portrait of, +<A HREF="#P46">46</A> +</P> + +<P CLASS="index"> +Stoker, Bram (Irving's manager), <A HREF="#P189">189</A>; handwriting of, <A HREF="#P189">189</A> +</P> + +<P CLASS="index"> +Strand, <A HREF="#P15">15</A> +</P> + +<P CLASS="index"> +Street cries of London, <A HREF="#P14">14</A> +</P> + +<P CLASS="index"> +"Sublime Society of Beefsteaks", <A HREF="#P202">202</A> +</P> + +<P CLASS="index"> +Submarine telegraphy, <A HREF="#P100">100</A>, <A HREF="#P101">101</A> +</P> + +<BR> + +<P CLASS="index"> +Talma (actor), fame of, <A HREF="#P185">185</A> +</P> + +<P CLASS="index"> +Telephone brought to Europe, <A HREF="#P106">106</A>; installed in Lord Kelvin's house, <A HREF="#P106">106</A> +</P> + +<P CLASS="index"> +Temple Bar, <A HREF="#P15">15</A> +</P> + +<P CLASS="index"> +Tennyson, Hallam (second Lord), son of poet, <A HREF="#P53">53</A>, <A HREF="#P126">126</A> +</P> + +<P CLASS="index"> +Tennyson, Lord (the poet), anecdotes of, <A HREF="#P121">121</A>, <A HREF="#P122">122-123</A>, <A HREF="#P129">129-130</A>, <A HREF="#P134">134</A>, +<A HREF="#P136">136</A>; brother of, <A HREF="#P125">125</A>; buried in Westminster Abbey, <A HREF="#P126">126</A>; description of, +<A HREF="#P121">121</A>; devotion of son, <A HREF="#P126">126</A>; "Dirty Monk" photograph of, <A HREF="#P117">117-118</A>; family +life, <A HREF="#P126">126</A>; letter in <I>Times</I> regarding, <A HREF="#P129">129-130</A>; life at Farringford, +<A HREF="#P126">126</A>; memorial to, <A HREF="#P127">127-129</A>; peculiarities of, <A HREF="#P125">125</A>; persons who resembled +him, <A HREF="#P125">125</A>; photographs of, <A HREF="#P117">117-118</A>; proud of his fame, <A HREF="#P124">124</A>; sincerity +of, <A HREF="#P130">130</A>; summer home of, <A HREF="#P125">125</A> +</P> + +<P CLASS="index"> +"Tennyson's Down", <A HREF="#P127">127</A> +</P> + +<P CLASS="index"> +Tennyson's Lane, <A HREF="#P115">115</A>, <A HREF="#P119">119</A>, <A HREF="#P120">120</A> +</P> + +<P CLASS="index"> +Terry, Ellen, achievements as actress, <A HREF="#P198">198</A>; art of, <A HREF="#P187">187</A>; at Irving's +supper parties, <A HREF="#P202">202</A>; at Lyceum Theatre, <A HREF="#P187">187</A>; charm of, <A HREF="#P197">197-198</A>; first +visit to America, <A HREF="#P46">46</A> +</P> + +<P CLASS="index"> +Thames Embankment, lighting on, <A HREF="#P9">9</A> +</P> + +<P CLASS="index"> +"The Artist's Mother" (Whistler), portrait sold to France, <A HREF="#P167">167</A> +</P> + +<P CLASS="index"> +"The Briary" (home of Watts), <A HREF="#P115">115</A> +</P> + +<P CLASS="index"> +"The Greatest Thing in the World" (Drummond), <A HREF="#P172">172</A>, <A HREF="#P174">174</A> +</P> + +<P CLASS="index"> +<I>The Pilot</I>, <A HREF="#P247">247</A> +</P> + +<P CLASS="index"> +"The Porch", Lady Ritchie's home, <A HREF="#P135">135</A> +</P> + +<P CLASS="index"> +"The Uniform Motion of Heat in Homogeneous Solid Bodies, and Its +Connection With The Mathematical Theory of Electricity" (by Lord +Kelvin), <A HREF="#P110">110</A> +</P> + +<P CLASS="index"> +Thomson, James, brother to Lord Kelvin, <A HREF="#P98">98</A> +</P> + +<P CLASS="index"> +Thomson, James, father of Lord Kelvin, <A HREF="#P98">98</A>; scholarship of, <A HREF="#P98">98-99</A> +</P> + +<P CLASS="index"> +Thomson, William, invented the "Siphon Recorder", <A HREF="#P101">101</A>; <I>see</I> also Lord +Kelvin +</P> + +<P CLASS="index"> +<I>Times</I>, London, quoted, <A HREF="#P129">129-130</A> +</P> + +<P CLASS="index"> +Tottenham Court Road, <A HREF="#P16">16</A> +</P> + +<P CLASS="index"> +Tower House, Chelsea (Whistler's home), <A HREF="#P158">158</A>, <A HREF="#P161">161</A> +</P> + +<P CLASS="index"> +Travel, comparison of sea, <A HREF="#P3">3</A>, <A HREF="#P4">4-5</A>; in London, <A HREF="#P13">13-14</A> +</P> + +<P CLASS="index"> +Tussaud, Madame, <A HREF="#P216">216</A>, <A HREF="#P234">234</A> +</P> + +<BR> + +<P CLASS="index"> +Ulster, ideals of, <A HREF="#P253">253</A>; problem of, <A HREF="#P253">253</A> +</P> + +<BR> + +<P CLASS="index"> +Van Lorino, Moscheles' teacher, <A HREF="#P45">45</A> +</P> + +<P CLASS="index"> +Vaudeville, the, <A HREF="#P16">16</A> +</P> + +<P CLASS="index"> +Vaughan, Dean, <A HREF="#P53">53</A> +</P> + +<P CLASS="index"> +Very's (restaurant), <A HREF="#P16">16</A> +</P> + +<P CLASS="index"> +Victoria (hotel), <A HREF="#P15">15</A> +</P> + +<P CLASS="index"> +Victoria Street (London), <A HREF="#P11">11</A> +</P> + +<P CLASS="index"> +Victoria Tower, <A HREF="#P12">12</A> +</P> + +<BR> + +<P CLASS="index"> +Walker, Robert, <A HREF="#P131">131</A>; theory regarding age of Freshwater, <A HREF="#P132">132-133</A> +</P> + +<P CLASS="index"> +Ward, "Ideal", in Freshwater, <A HREF="#P122">122</A> +</P> + +<P CLASS="index"> +Warren, Arthur, account of "American Dinner" given to Stanley, <A HREF="#P212">212-220</A>; +acquaintances in Paris, <A HREF="#P18">18-19</A>; acquaintance with Henry Murray, <A HREF="#P6">6</A>, <A HREF="#P7">7</A>, +with Moscheles, <A HREF="#P43">43</A>, <A HREF="#P50">50</A>; acts upon Whistler's advice, <A HREF="#P164">164</A>; appointed +London correspondent to <I>Boston Herald</I>, <A HREF="#P41">41</A>; appreciation of Rodin, <A HREF="#P30">30</A>, +<A HREF="#P31">31</A>; arrival in London, <A HREF="#P1">1-2</A>; becomes an amateur journalist, <A HREF="#P26">26-27</A>; +brings Moscheles and Stepniak together, <A HREF="#P49">49</A>; comment on artistic +sensibility, <A HREF="#P237">237-238</A>, on teetotalism, <A HREF="#P202">202-203</A>; day with Meredith, +<A HREF="#P223">223-238</A>; day with John Stuart Blackie, <A HREF="#P79">79-95</A>; describes Browning's +burial, <A HREF="#P51">51-56</A>; describes early career, <A HREF="#P28">28-29</A>; desire to write, <A HREF="#P6">6</A>; +dinner with Whistler, <A HREF="#P160">160</A>; engaged as journalist by <I>Boston Herald</I>, +<A HREF="#P40">40-41</A>; evenings with Henry Drummond, <A HREF="#P170">170-173</A>, <A HREF="#P175">175-176</A>, <A HREF="#P177">177</A>, <A HREF="#P179">179-181</A>; +experiences attending Lyceum Theatre, <A HREF="#P194">194-196</A>; experience with Parnell, +<A HREF="#P242">242-245</A>; first newspaper copy, <A HREF="#P28">28-29</A>, sees Browning, <A HREF="#P47">47</A>, sees Stanley, +<A HREF="#P206">206</A>, sees Tennyson, <A HREF="#P121">121</A>, trip to Paris, <A HREF="#P18">18</A>, work in London, <A HREF="#P6">6</A>; +friendship with Lady Ritchie, <A HREF="#P134">134</A>, <A HREF="#P135">135</A>, <A HREF="#P136">136</A>, with Lord Kelvin, <A HREF="#P97">97</A>, with +Whistler, <A HREF="#P157">157-164</A>, <A HREF="#P165">165-169</A>; homes in London, <A HREF="#P7">7</A>, <A HREF="#P8">8</A>, <A HREF="#P49">49</A>, <A HREF="#P157">157-158</A>, <A HREF="#P161">161</A>, +<A HREF="#P164">164</A>, <A HREF="#P222">222</A>; in France, <A HREF="#P18">18-27</A>; interview with Boulanger, <A HREF="#P273">273</A>, with +Monsignor Capel, <A HREF="#P35">35</A>, <A HREF="#P37">37-38</A>; joins Committee on Tennyson Memorial, +<A HREF="#P127">127-128</A>; last visit to Isle of Wight, <A HREF="#P134">134-135</A>; learning London, <A HREF="#P7">7</A>; +"London Letters", <A HREF="#P29">29</A>, <A HREF="#P30">30</A>; makes a study of British municipal policy, +<A HREF="#P176">176-177</A>; meeting with Irving, <A HREF="#P200">200-201</A>, with George Sala, <A HREF="#P32">32</A>, with John +Burns, <A HREF="#P223">223</A>, <A HREF="#P229">229-234</A>, <A HREF="#P238">238</A>, <A HREF="#P239">239</A>, with Monsignor Capel, <A HREF="#P35">35</A>; memories of +Lord Kelvin, <A HREF="#P96">96-113</A>, of father's burial, <A HREF="#P56">56</A>; native of Boston, <A HREF="#P1">1</A>; +opinion of Boulanger, <A HREF="#P268">268</A>, <A HREF="#P269">269</A>, <A HREF="#P270">270</A>, <A HREF="#P272">272</A>, <A HREF="#P273">273-274</A>, of British +character, <A HREF="#P196">196-197</A>, of Gladstone, <A HREF="#P140">140</A>, <A HREF="#P141">141-142</A>, <A HREF="#P144">144</A>, <A HREF="#P145">145</A>, <A HREF="#P148">148</A>, <A HREF="#P150">150</A>, of +Irving's acting, <A HREF="#P191">191</A>, <A HREF="#P192">192</A>, <A HREF="#P193">193</A>, <A HREF="#P194">194</A>, <A HREF="#P199">199</A>, of Parnell, <A HREF="#P255">255</A>, <A HREF="#P256">256</A>, +<A HREF="#P257">257-259</A>; plans articles for American papers, <A HREF="#P31">31</A>, <A HREF="#P32">32</A>; recollections of +first three weeks in London, <A HREF="#P3">3</A>; seasickness, <A HREF="#P4">4-5</A>; sees Irving for first +time, <A HREF="#P192">192</A>; sounds Whistler regarding American commission, <A HREF="#P168">168-169</A>; +Sunday Smoke Talks at home, <A HREF="#P162">162</A>; trip to Paris to interview Boulanger, +<A HREF="#P261">261</A>, <A HREF="#P263">263-272</A>; views on Irish question, <A HREF="#P250">250-257</A>, on politics, <A HREF="#P139">139</A>, <A HREF="#P140">140</A>, +<A HREF="#P145">145-146</A>, <A HREF="#P155">155</A>; visits to America, <A HREF="#P32">32</A>, <A HREF="#P39">39</A>, <A HREF="#P41">41</A>, <A HREF="#P160">160</A>, <A HREF="#P238">238</A>, <A HREF="#P247">247</A>, to +Freshwater, Isle of Wight, <A HREF="#P114">114</A>, <A HREF="#P115">115</A>, <A HREF="#P118">118</A>, <A HREF="#P136">136</A>, to Normandy, <A HREF="#P20">20-25</A>, to +Patti's home, <A HREF="#P57">57-78</A>; voyage to England in 1878, <A HREF="#P3">3-5</A> +</P> + +<P CLASS="index"> +Waterloo Bridge, <A HREF="#P12">12</A> +</P> + +<P CLASS="index"> +Waterloo Place, <A HREF="#P12">12</A> +</P> + +<P CLASS="index"> +Watts, George Frederick, <A HREF="#P115">115</A> +</P> + +<P CLASS="index"> +Westminster Abbey, <A HREF="#P10">10</A>, <A HREF="#P12">12</A>; Browning's burial in, <A HREF="#P51">51-56</A>; Poets' Corner +in, <A HREF="#P55">55</A>; Tennyson buried in, <A HREF="#P126">126</A> +</P> + +<P CLASS="index"> +Westminster Bridge, <A HREF="#P12">12</A> +</P> + +<P CLASS="index"> +Weston Manor, Freshwater, <A HREF="#P122">122</A>; Phoenician remains at, <A HREF="#P133">133</A> +</P> + +<P CLASS="index"> +Whistler, James A. McNeill, <A HREF="#P52">52</A>, <A HREF="#P157">157-169</A>; anecdotes of, <A HREF="#P157">157-160</A>, <A HREF="#P162">162</A>, +<A HREF="#P163">163</A>, <A HREF="#P164">164</A>, <A HREF="#P166">166-167</A>; as a neighbour, <A HREF="#P164">164</A>, <A HREF="#P165">165</A>; called "butterfly with a +sting", <A HREF="#P165">165-166</A>; champion of art, <A HREF="#P164">164-165</A>; characteristics of, <A HREF="#P157">157</A>, +<A HREF="#P163">163</A>, <A HREF="#P169">169</A>; description of, <A HREF="#P157">157</A>, <A HREF="#P163">163</A>; dinner at house of, <A HREF="#P160">160</A>; goes to +author's Sunday Smoke Talks, <A HREF="#P161">161-162</A>; homes of, <A HREF="#P158">158</A>, <A HREF="#P161">161</A>; is offered a +commission for decoration of Boston Public Library, <A HREF="#P168">168-169</A>; moves to +Paris, <A HREF="#P169">169</A>; portrait of Carlyle sold, <A HREF="#P166">166-167</A>; pursuit of Sheridan +Ford, <A HREF="#P160">160-161</A>; suggests decoration of author's flat, <A HREF="#P104">104</A>; "The Artist's +Mother", portrait, sold to France, <A HREF="#P167">167</A> +</P> + +<P CLASS="index"> +White, Henry, American Ambassador, <A HREF="#P216">216-217</A> +</P> + +<P CLASS="index"> +White, James, manufacturer of instruments of precision, <A HREF="#P100">100</A> +</P> + +<P CLASS="index"> +Whitehall, <A HREF="#P11">11</A> +</P> + +<P CLASS="index"> +Whitehouse, <A HREF="#P101">101</A> +</P> + +<P CLASS="index"> +Wilson, Woodrow, policy of, <A HREF="#P138">138</A>, <A HREF="#P156">156</A> +</P> + +<P CLASS="index"> +Wolseley, Lord, <A HREF="#P52">52</A> +</P> + +<P CLASS="index"> +Wood, Mrs. Henry, <A HREF="#P17">17</A> +</P> + +<P CLASS="index"> +Wores, Theodore, disciple of Whistler, <A HREF="#P162">162</A> +</P> + +<P CLASS="index"> +Writers in London, <A HREF="#P16">16-17</A> +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR><BR> + + + + + + + + +<pre> + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of London Days, by Arthur Warren + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK LONDON DAYS *** + +***** This file should be named 34812-h.htm or 34812-h.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + https://www.gutenberg.org/3/4/8/1/34812/ + +Produced by Al Haines + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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