country-house in Scotland. The house party was a large one, and Sir
Arthur Sullivan, laying aside all claim to the kind of consideration
to which his reputation entitled him, became at once the life and soul
of the varied entertainments that were organised during the evenings
of our visit. If there were private theatricals or tableaux vivants he
would cheerfully supply the incidental music required for the occasion,
and was so little preoccupied with the dignity of his position as
composer that he would willingly accompany the songs of every amateur,
and when the need arose would seat himself patiently at the piano to
provide the music for an improvised dance. We met often in the years
that followed, and our acquaintance quickly ripened into a close and
lasting friendship. In the riverside houses, which he used then to
take during the summer months of the year, he was the most delightful
of hosts, and when I was able to accompany him on some of his trips
abroad, I found in his companionship a charm that never failed.
In 1894 he was invited by Sir Henry Irving to compose the music for
my play of King Arthur, and he became so deeply interested in the
subject that he afterwards planned the execution of an opera dealing
with the fortunes of Launcelot and Guinevere, for which I was to supply
the libretto. Owing to failing health, however, the scheme was never
carried to completion, and it is perhaps open to question whether the
sustained effort needed for the interpretation of a serious and tragic
theme would have so nicely fitted the natural bent of his genius as the
lighter framework provided for him by Sir William Gilbert.
Certainly the alliance of these two men proved of rare value to their
generation. It is impossible to conceive of talents so differently
moulded or so sharply contrasted, a contrast that found an apt
reflection in their strikingly divergent personalities. At the first
glance their partnership would hardly seem to promise a fruitful
result, and yet it was perhaps out of their very unlikeness that
they were enabled to derive something of constant inspiration from
one another. Gilbert’s humour, perhaps the most individual in his
generation, was cloaked beneath a somewhat sullen exterior. The settled
gravity of his expression, sometimes almost menacing in the sense of
slumbering hostility which it conveyed, gave hardly a hint of those
sudden flashes of wit which came like quick lightning from a lowering
sky, and was as far removed as possible from the sunny radiance of
Sullivan’s face, wherein the look of resident geniality stood ready
on the smallest provocation to reflect every passing mood of quickly
responsive appreciation. Many of the pungent epigrams of Gilbert are
well known, and if they were not in every case invented on the spur of
the moment, they were uttered with such apparent reluctance to disturb
the settled gravity of his demeanour as to produce in the listener
the conviction that he himself was the last person to suspect their
existence. Very often indeed they were obviously born of the moment of
their utterance. I remember our both being present in the stalls of
a theatre listening to an actor who was wont to mask his occasional
departure from strict sobriety by the adoption of a confidential tone
in delivery that sank sometimes to the confines of a whisper, when
Gilbert, leaning over my shoulder, remarked, “No one admires the art
of Mr. K---- more than I do, but I always feel I am taking a liberty
in overhearing what he says.” At another time, when he had been
invited to attend a concert in aid of the Soldiers’ Daughters’ Home,
he replied with polite gravity that he feared he would not be able
to be present at the concert, but that he would be delighted to see
one of the soldiers’ daughters home after the entertainment. These
are only two samples drawn at random from an inexhaustible store of
such sayings as must survive in the memory of all who knew him, and
the special flavour that is impressed upon them all is equally to be
noted in his work for the theatre, more particularly in those lyrical
portions of the operas composed in association with Sullivan. In the
art of stating a purely prosaic proposition in terms of verse he was
indeed without rival. His metrical skill only served to emphasise more
deeply the essential unfitness of the poetic form for the message he
had to convey; and this unconcealed discordance between the essence of
the thought to be expressed and the vehicle chosen for its expression,
became irresistible in its humorous appeal even before it had received
its musical setting. And yet that setting, as supplied by Sullivan,
gave to the whole a unique value. The sardonic spirit of the writer not
only called forth in Sullivan a corresponding humour in the adaptation
of serious musical form, but it enabled him to super-add qualities of
grace and beauty which deserved to rank as an independent contribution
of his own. In this way the combined result possessed a measure of
poetic charm and glamour which Gilbert’s verse in itself, despite
its rare technical qualities, could not pretend to claim, although
without the impulse supplied by his more prosaic partner, it may be
doubted whether even the finer graces of Sullivan’s genius would have
found such apt and fortunate expression. Certain it is that where the
task imposed upon him lacked the support of this satiric spirit, he
often laboured with a reward less entirely satisfying, and, on the
other hand, I think Gilbert himself was impelled by the exigencies
of their comradeship to indulge a more fanciful invention than was
characteristic of his isolated efforts as a writer of verse.
My final association with Sir Arthur Sullivan arose out of my joint
authorship with Sir Arthur Pinero in the libretto of _The Beauty
Stone_. I think the composer was conscious that the scheme of our work
constituted a somewhat violent departure from the lines upon which
his success in the theatre had hitherto been achieved. At an earlier
time this fact in itself would not, I believe, have proved unwelcome
to him, for he had confessed to me that he was sometimes weary of the
fetters which Gilbert’s particular satiric vein imposed upon him,
and his ambition rather impelled him to make trial in a field where,
without encountering all the demands incident to Grand Opera, he might
be able to give freer rein to the more serious side of his genius.
But the adventure, even had our share in the task proved entirely
satisfactory to the public, came too late. Poor Sullivan was already a
sick man. Sufferings long and patiently endured had sapped his power of
sustained energy, and my recollection of the days I passed with him in
his villa at Beaulieu, when he was engaged in setting the lyrics I had
written, are shadowed and saddened by the impression then left upon me
that he was working under difficulties of a physical kind almost too
great to be borne. The old genial spirit was still there, the quick
humour in appreciation and the ready sympathy in all that concerned
our common task, but the sunny optimism of earlier days shone only
fitfully through the physical depression that lay heavily upon him, and
when a little later we came to the strenuous times of rehearsal in the
theatre, one was forced to observe the strain he seemed constantly in
need of putting upon himself in order to get through the irksome labour
of the day. There were indeed brighter intervals when he seemed in
nothing changed from the man as I first knew him, but on such happier
moments would quickly follow long seasons of depression, showing itself
sometimes in an irritability of temper so foreign to his real nature as
to raise in the minds of his friends feelings of deep disquietude and
anxiety. But the Sullivan of those moods of dejection is not the man
whose portrait lives in the memory of those who knew him. It is easier
to think of him in those earlier days when the constant urbanity of his
outlook upon the world was lightened by a laughing humour constantly
inspired by sympathy and affection.
THE JUNIOR OF THE CIRCUIT
When I first joined the Northern circuit in the year 1872, it
covered a wider area than is now allotted to it. We used at that
time to begin operations at Appleby, journeying thence from Durham
to Newcastle, Carlisle, Lancaster, Manchester, and Liverpool. The
members of the Local Bar in the two last-named cities were already
strong and powerful, but they had not yet absorbed so large a share
of the business of the assizes as they now enjoy. It was Charles
Crompton--with whom I had read in chambers--who secured for me the
coveted position of Junior of the circuit, and the first occasion on
which I set out to discharge the somewhat anomalous duties of my office
I shared rooms at Durham with the present Mr. Justice Kennedy, who, I
think, had himself been a candidate for the post.
I have referred to the duties of the Junior of the circuit as being
somewhat anomalous, because although, as his title would imply, he
is always chosen from the newest of its recruits, tradition dowers
him with a figment of authority which is altogether out of proportion
to any personal qualifications he may chance to possess. He disputes
the leadership of the circuit with the leader himself, and is assumed
to hold specially in his keeping the interests of the Junior Bar as
opposed to whatever arrogant claims may be put forward by the more
fortunate wearers of the silken gown. To this defiant attitude,
where the opportunity for defiance was in any sense possible, I was
constantly urged by the members of the Junior Bar, whose cause I was
supposed to champion; and it was deemed a duty, which no Junior of
spirit could safely ignore, that on any public occasion when he had
to stand up as spokesman of the circuit, he should depreciate, with
all the resources at his disposal, both the intellectual prowess and
the professional bearing of the eminent Queen’s counsel who were
assembled at assize. The dignity thus assigned to him was, of course,
only half-humorously entertained by his comrades of both ranks, but
so much of reality still attached to the office that the holder of
it, if he chose to take advantage of the situation, found ample
opportunity for the trial and exercise of such gifts of oratory as he
might be fortunate enough to possess. Wherever and whenever the members
of the circuit were entertained, the Junior had to brace himself
to his allotted task; and although at the time I had been assigned
no opportunity of airing my powers of speech in open court, these
festive gatherings, which occurred in nearly every separate county we
visited, left me free for the crude practice of an art that had always
profoundly attracted me.
The leaders of the Northern circuit, whose virtues I was called upon
to assail, numbered at that time some of the most distinguished
representatives at the Bar. Herschell, Russell, Holker, and Sam Pope
had all either attained or were nearing the zenith of their fame; while
among the Junior Bar it may suffice to cite the names of the late
Lord Selby (then Mr. Gully), Mr. Henn Collins (the late Master of the
Rolls), Lord Mersey, and Mr. Justice Kennedy. It was a privilege to
watch the work in court in which the powers of some of these giants
of the profession were daily called into exercise. I used to hear
some of my contemporaries sigh over the weary ordeal of having to
sit and listen to cases in which they were not concerned; a little
later, in the courts at Westminster, I sometimes shared that feeling
of fatigue; but my experience of two years of circuit life yields few
dull memories. The proceedings on circuit are perhaps more concentrated
in their interest than can, in the nature of things, be claimed for
the more scattered and diversified arena of the metropolis; one is
brought more nearly into touch with the chief actors in the drama, and
the incidents of the day are renewed and discussed at the Bar mess in
the evening. It is possible there to gauge and to measure the social
qualities of the men whose public performances in court are still under
consideration, and to link the more human side of this or that great
advocate, as it was frankly and freely exhibited in those hours when we
sat at wine after dinner, with the purely intellectual gifts that had
been set in action during the day. No one, for instance, who knew Mr.
Russell (afterwards Lord Russell of Killowen) only by his conduct of
a case in court, where the qualities of an imperious temper joined to
an unrelenting gravity of manner coloured and dominated the impression
which even his most eloquent speeches produced, could have readily
divined that he possessed at the same time a vein of genuine sentiment
that, in his more sympathetic moods, showed itself as being no less
clearly an integral part of his nature. And yet this softer side of
his character was often shown at the circuit mess, and I have more
than once seen his eyes moistened with tears as he would sing, without
any great pretence of art, one or more of Moore’s sentimental Irish
melodies.
Nor could it have been readily guessed that, beneath the look of
slumbering power which marked Holker’s personality, there lurked a
quickened sense of humour of which he could make agile display when
the needs of the social occasion called it into being. The almost
daily contest between these two men, so differently equipped, and yet
often so equally matched, formed one of the most interesting subjects
of study to the youngster whose idle days were passed in court; for
down the length of the circuit, from Durham to Liverpool, there were
few causes of any magnitude or importance in which they were not both
engaged, and their divergent personalities and varying methods remain
to me now as an unfading recollection. It was sometimes difficult
to realise that Holker owned any real claims to eloquence until the
cumulative effect of his untiring insistence found its reflex in the
favourable verdict of the jury. That, at any rate, was the first
impression.
It was only afterwards that the student was able to realise what a
wealth of intellectual resource and unsleeping vigilance lay masked
beneath the somewhat uncouth exterior in which the immobile and
unresponsive features gave scarcely a hint of the quick insight
into human nature, and the swift grasp of what was essential either
in the strength or the weakness of his cause. Grace of oratory he
certainly could never boast, but his very disability in this respect
seemed sometimes to serve him as a source of power. His humble and
deprecating manner, as though he were struggling with a task too
great for him, made an irresistible appeal to the sympathies of a
Northern jury, who would seem silently bidden to come to the aid of
this giant in distress, and who were never, I think, aware that in
leaning towards what they deemed the weaker side, they were, in fact,
the victims of the most consummate art which cloaked itself in almost
blundering simplicity of phrase. Russell’s more brilliant gifts as
an orator often beat in vain against what seemed at first sight to
be the ill-adjusted and cumbrous methods of his adversary; while at
other times the superior grace and vehemence of his style carried him
safely to victory. Even at that date it seemed to me clear that he was
destined to take his place as the most distinguished advocate at the
Bar, and those who had the privilege of watching his career at that
time had not long to wait to witness the fulfilment of their prophecy.
I think of him always as an advocate, for although his natural gift of
speech might have fitted him to win renown in almost any arena, it may
nevertheless be justly said of him that it was the office of advocacy
alone which furnished the needed impulse for the display of his highest
gifts as an orator. It is possibly for that reason that his career
in Parliament never quite justified his commanding reputation at the
Bar, and it is certainly true--as I myself have witnessed more than
once--that in the discharge of those lighter duties that fall to a
speaker on festal occasions he moved with little ease of style and with
far inferior effect.
It was the concrete issue, carrying with it a full sense of
responsibility, that was needed to set in motion the great forces of
character and intellect that were his by right. It was the sense of
the duel that pricked him forward to the display of his powers at
their best; and it is, I think, this same sense of the duel that forms
the supreme element of interest to those who are called upon to watch
the conduct of a great trial in which grave issues are at stake. To
the trained mind of the lawyer an intricate case, in which only civil
interests are involved, provides perhaps the fullest opportunity for
watching the expert sword-play between two leaders who are fitly armed
for their task; but from the more human and dramatic point of view
it is the criminal court in an assize town that more often attracts
the presence of the younger student. A murder trial, where the man
whose life is in the balance stands before you in the dock during the
long hours of a protracted hearing, becomes, as the case advances,
absorbing, and even oppressive, in its interest. The very air of
the crowded court seems charged with the message of this one human
story; it is difficult, as the sordid and pitiable facts are gradually
revealed, to conceive that there is any other drama than that which
is being enacted within those four walls. And as the trial drags its
course, with each new link in the evidence seeming to forge a chain
that is gradually drawing closer around the wretched being who stands
before you in the dock, the intensity of the situation becomes so great
and so strained that one is almost tempted to believe that the whole
world is awaiting that one word from the lips of the jury which shall
set him free once more or send him to his doom.
I can recall many such trials during my brief service on the Northern
circuit, and sometimes when the hearing outran the hours commonly
allotted for the sittings of the court, and when judge and jury, by
mutual consent, had agreed that the end should be reached before the
end of the day, the inherent solemnity of the scene would receive an
added sense of awe and terror as the fading daylight gradually deserted
the building, and the creeping shadows half-shrouded the faces of the
spectators eagerly and silently intent upon every word that fell from
the judge in his summing-up--whose grave countenance, only partly
illumined by the candles that had been set upon his desk, stood in
dreadful contrast with that of the prisoner who confronted him with
ashen face like that of a spectre in the darkness. And once I remember,
when the fatal verdict had been given, and the judge had passed to
the dread task of pronouncing sentence--a task never in my experience
discharged without the signs of visible emotion--the terror of the
scene was still further heightened as the prisoner, shrieking for
mercy, held fast to the bar of the dock, and was only at last removed
by force to the cells below.
Such memories count among the sadder experiences of circuit life, and
were relieved by much else in the ordinary work of the day that leaves
a happier recollection. I believe the circuit mess has now greatly
fallen from its former estate; in my time it flourished exceedingly.
At each of the great towns we kept a well-stocked cellar of our own,
and it was the business of the junior to see that the members dining
were kept well supplied with the wine of their choice. The increase of
the Local Bar in many of the great centres has no doubt considerably
changed all this--with some loss, as it must be, of the sense of
good-fellowship which then bound us together. But at that time those
nightly gatherings, at which nearly every member of the circuit dined,
kept alive a kind of schoolboy feeling that infected the graver
leaders no less than the Junior Bar. The dinner-hour brought with it
always something of a festal spirit, and there were special occasions,
such as grand nights, that were wholly given over to a frolic mood. We
had our accredited Poet Laureate, poor Hugh Shield, who has now joined
the majority, and whose duty it was to provide the fitting doggerel
to be recited at the mess. Nor were these effusions too strictly
judged, from a purely literary point of view, if they were sufficiently
besprinkled with pungent personal references to such members as were
deemed to afford fitting material for the exercise of the poet’s
humour. Another of those who was a prodigal contributor to the humours
of the evening was M‘Connell, who afterwards became judge of the
Middlesex Sessions. And even the leader was not allowed to escape his
contribution, although it was sometimes hinted that his lighter essays
in prose and verse were supplied to him by some one of his friends
whose professional services were not so fully employed.
Though the barrister’s calling did not long hold me in its service,
I have always retained the keenest interest in the triumphs of its
distinguished representatives. Perhaps of no other profession can it be
so truly said that it is fitted to claim the undivided allegiance of
the strongest character and the keenest intellect; possibly, for that
reason it leaves the most indelible mark upon its followers. A great
lawyer, in whatever arena he may be encountered, never quite divests
himself of the habit of the law; just as there are some men who, by a
natural academic inclination, remain always and obviously members of
their University, no matter how far removed may be the ultimate field
of their activity. But if a lawyer is always a lawyer, it is perhaps
for that very reason that he is often such excellent company, and this,
I think, applies especially to members of the Common Law Bar, who do
not incur the same danger of becoming enmeshed in the enclosing net
of legal subtleties. With them the study and knowledge of character
becomes often a greater element of strength, than a profound knowledge
of legal principles.
BY THE SIDE OF A STREAM
If a writer happens to be an angler, he will often find himself when in
holiday mood on the banks of a trout stream. There is long warrant for
the association of these two callings. Since the day of Izaak Walton,
whom we still follow with such delight in his rambles beside the Dove
or the Lea, the hand whose chief office it is to hold the pen has
again and again, in hours of leisure, been found wielding the rod. We
have modern examples in Charles Kingsley, whose “Chalk Stream Studies”
may perhaps outlast many of his more ambitious essays in literature;
and Mr. Froude has left among his miscellaneous writings a delightful
record of a day’s fishing on a Hertfordshire stream. William Black,
the novelist, never tired of recounting to me his various adventures
in northern waters; and among modern writers, Mr. Andrew Lang may
also be cited as an unwearying follower of the gentle art. I think,
indeed, the alliance I have noted has in it something more than the
accident of individual taste. There is no need for the long leisure
of a set holiday to enable the man of letters to turn to his favourite
recreation. The more violent forms of sport, which exact the devotion
of a day, or of a series of days, require the enforced cessation of all
forms of literary toil; but if the angler is fortunately located, work
and play are by no means inconsistent and--granted that he is strong
enough to resist during the earlier hours of the day the alluring call
of the gentle south-west breeze with its alternating changes of sun
and cloud--the morning may still hold him chained to his desk, sure of
the reward of his industry in the evening ramble by the stream. And
if his success as an angler be not too complete--and how often it is
not!--the subject of his morning task will often renew itself in the
happy solitude that counts among the many joys which angling can boast.