April 4th, 1856.--On Tuesday I went to No. 14 Ludgate Hill, to dine with
Bennoch at the Milton Club; a club recently founded for dissenters,
nonconformists, and people whose ideas, religious or political, are not
precisely in train with the establishment in church and state. I was
shown into a large reading-room, well provided with periodicals and
newspapers, and found two or three persons there; but Bennoch had not yet
arrived. In a few moments, a tall gentleman with white hair came in,--a
fine and intelligent-looking man, whom I guessed to be one of those who
were to meet me. He walked about, glancing at the periodicals; and soon
entered Mr. Tupper, and, without seeing me, exchanged warm greetings with
the white-haired gentleman. "I suppose," began Mr. Tupper, "you have
come to meet--" Now, conscious that my name was going to be spoken, and
not knowing but the excellent Mr. Tupper might say something which he
would not, quite like me to overhear, I advanced at once, with
outstretched hand, and saluted him. He expressed great joy at the
recognition, and immediately introduced me to Mr. Hall.
The dining-room was pretty large and lofty, and there were sixteen guests
at table, most of them authors, or people connected with the press; so
that the party represented a great deal of the working intellect of
London at this present day and moment,--the men whose plays, whose songs,
whose articles, are just now in vogue. Mr. Tom Taylor was one of the
very few whose writings I had known anything about. He is a tall,
slender, dark young man, not English-looking, and wearing colored
spectacles, so that I should readily have taken him for an American
literary man. I did not have much opportunity of talking with him, nor
with anybody else, except Dr. ------, who seemed a shrewd, sensible man,
with a certain slight acerbity of thought. Mr. Herbert Ingram, recently
elected member of Parliament, was likewise present, and sat on Bennoch's
left.
It was a very good dinner, with an abundance of wine, which Bennoch sent
round faster than was for the next day's comfort of his guests. It is
singular that I should thus far have quite forgotten W------ H--------,
whose books I know better than those of any other person there. He is a
white-headed, stout, firm-looking, and rather wrinkled-faced old
gentleman, whose temper, I should imagine, was not the very sweetest in
the world. There is all abruptness, a kind of sub-acidity, if not
bitterness, in his address; he seemed not to be, in short, so genial as I
should have anticipated from his books.
As soon as the cloth was removed, Bennoch, without rising from his chair,
made a speech in honor of his eminent and distinguished guest, which
illustrious person happened to be sitting in the selfsame chair that I
myself occupied. I have no recollection of what he said, nor of what I
said in reply, but I remember that both of us were cheered and applauded
much more than the occasion deserved. Then followed about fifty other
speeches; for every single individual at table was called up (as Tupper
said, "toasted and roasted"), and, for my part, I was done entirely brown
(to continue T-----'s figure). Everybody said something kind, not a word
or idea of which can I find in my memory. Certainly, if I never get any
more praise in my life, I have had enough of it for once. I made another
little bit of a speech, too, in response to something that was said in
reference to the present difficulties between England and America, and
ended, as a proof that I deemed war impossible, with drinking success to
the British army, and calling on Lieutenant Shaw, of the Aldershott Camp,
to reply. I am afraid I must have said something very wrong, for the
applause was vociferous, and I could hear the gentlemen whispering about
the table, "Good!" "Good!" "Yes, he is a fine fellow,"--and other such
ill-earned praises; and I took shame to myself, and held my tongue
(publicly) the rest of the evening. But in such cases something must be
allowed to the excitement of the moment, and to the effect of kindness
and goodwill, so broadly and warmly displayed; and even a sincere man
must not be held to speak as if he were under oath.
We separated, in a blessed state of contentment with one another, at
about eleven; and (lest I should starve before morning) I went with Mr.
D------ to take supper at his house in Park Lane. Mr. D------ is a pale
young gentleman, of American aspect, being a West-Indian by birth. He is
one of the principal writers of editorials for the Times. We were
accompanied in the carriage by another gentleman, Mr. M------, who is
connected with the management of the same paper. He wrote the letters
from Scutari, which drew so much attention to the state of the hospitals.
Mr. D------ is the husband of the former Miss ------, the actress, and
when we reached his house, we found that she had just come home from the
theatre, and was taking off her stage-dress. Anon she came down to the
drawing-room,--a seemingly good, simple, and intelligent lady, not at all
pretty, and, I should think, older than her husband. She was very kind
to me, and told me that she had read one of my books--The House of the
Seven Gables--thirteen years ago; which I thought remarkable, because I
did not write it till eight or nine years afterwards.
The principal talk during supper (which consisted of Welsh-rabbit and
biscuits, with champagne and sodawater) was about the Times, and the two
contributors expressed vast admiration of Mr. ------, who has the chief
editorial management of the paper. It is odd to find how little we
outsiders know of men who really exercise a vast influence on affairs,
for this Mr. ------ is certainly of far more importance in the world than
a minister of state. He writes nothing himself; but the character of the
Times seems to depend upon his intuitive, unerring judgment; and if ever
he is absent from his post, even for a day or two, they say that the
paper immediately shows it. In reply to my questions, they appeared to
acknowledge that he was a man of expediency, but of a very high
expediency, and that he gave the public the very best principles which it
was capable of receiving. Perhaps it may be so: the Times's articles are
certainly not written in so high a moral vein as might be wished; but
what they lack in height they gain in breadth. Every sensible man in
England finds his own best common-sense there; and, in effect, I think
its influence is wholesome.
Apropos of public speaking, Dr. ------ said that Sir Lytton Bulwer asked
him (I think the anecdote was personal to himself) whether he felt his
heart beat when he was going to speak. "Yes." "Does your voice frighten
you?" "Yes." "Do all your ideas forsake you?" "Yes." "Do you wish the
floor to open and swallow you?" "Yes." "Why, then, you'll make an
orator!" Dr. ------ told of Canning, too, how once, before rising to
speak in the House of Commons, he bade his friend feel his pulse, which
was throbbing terrifically. "I know I shall make one of my best
speeches," said Canning, "because I'm in such an awful funk!" President
Pierce, who has a great deal of oratorical power, is subject to a similar
horror and reluctance.