Latham was a singular anomaly of our organization. No one could help
liking and disliking him. He was logical in mind, illogical in action.
As captain of Eton College, he became a Fellow of King’s, and before
long was the greatest authority on English grammar. He was Physician
to the Middlesex Hospital; he was Professor of the English Language at
University College. He dressed like a respectable clergyman. Then, from
being a great man, he gradually became a little man, and dressed like a
clergyman of a less reputable type; his white necktie unlaundressed, his
fine chin ill-shaven, his black coat unskilfully brushed, if at all; but
his eye and tongue continued in full practice for satire or fun. Unable
to finance in his own affairs, he thought his true function in life would
have been that of Chancellor of the Exchequer, and that he had so missed
his mark. A common saying of his, with an earnest look and his hand on
a friend’s shoulder, was, “Will you lend me a sovereign that you will
never see again?” An acquaintance of his, feeling touched at his outward
display of poverty, almost amounting to boastfulness, inwardly gifted as
he was, on putting gold apologetically on his table, received the reply:
“I am glad you are in a position to do it; what may your income be?”
Another, treating him similarly, heard a laugh, with the words, “It is
very nice to put your hand in your waistcoat pocket and do that. What
income tax do you chance to pay?”
Nature ought not to put such organic prescriptions through the process of
being dispensed.
He was heir-presumptive to a fine landed property, the reversion of which
he sold for a sum not larger than a year of its rental. The heir-apparent
died, and the estate fell in, never to reach him. His wife said she
thought it a pity to have lost the property as he had done. He answered,
“But, my dear, you cannot say you have lost what has never been yours!”
Like a good chancellor of the exchequer, he had the habit of assessing
people’s incomes at a guess, for the purpose of determining what they
ought to give towards the subscriptions so constantly on foot for his
benefit.
Latham once made the effort to ask Mr. Gladstone for a pension. The
minister said that it was a matter resting with Lord Palmerston, the
premier, who was very jealous of his rights, and advised the applicant to
state his claim in the proper quarter.
On this, Latham let the subject drop, when some time afterwards he
received a notice that he was placed on the civil list for £100 a year,
and received, according to custom, the amount in advance.
His difficulties occupied the attention of many, and he was made more
easy in his circumstance as age overtook him; but on his pension being
alluded to, he related, as a joke, that he had sold that before its first
year had expired.
Latham had a very handsome person, with a smiling, knowing look, the most
knowing I ever saw.
He was decidedly of a kindly nature: fond of his family, genial to
excess, recognisant of his friends. He was probably spoiled by falling
into the worst habits of college life, instead of the best.
Nothing that I have written would offend his shade. He was proud
intellectually, but he abandoned position, and, I really believe,
purposely exhibited himself as poor, when he would walk home with a
cabbage balanced upon his arm. It was meant as a reproach to the world,
on which he had so decided a claim.
One day Latham called on me and brought Mr. Theodore Watts with him,
an old friend of his, and the son of a yet older friend. Watts and I
came into concord on the same octave, and we soon attuned ourselves in
friendly duets.
Later on, George Borrow turned up while Watts was there, and we went
through a pleasant trio, in which Borrow, as was his wont, took the first
fiddle. The reader must not here take metaphor for music. Borrow made
himself very agreeable to Watts, recited a fairy tale in the best style
to him, and liked him.
This was not their only meeting, for both came often to my house, from
which we strolled for an hour or two into the park—strolls deserving of
remembrance, as shown in sonnet form by me in my “New Day.”
Latham wanted much to meet Borrow at my table; I told him it would not
do. He said he would be on his best behaviour, and promised to say
nothing that could offend the most sensitive.