IT is curious if one lives long enough to watch the change of taste in
books. I have no lending-library statistics at hand, but judging by the
reading of young people, or of those who read merely for their amusement,
the authors they patronise are nearly all living or very recent. What we
old stagers esteemed as classical in fiction and _belles-lettres_ are
sealed books to the present generation. It is an exception, for
instance, to meet with a young man or young woman who has read Walter
Scott. Perhaps Balzac’s reason is the true one. Scott, says he, ‘est
sans passion; il l’ignore, ou peut-être lui était-elle interdite par les
mœurs hypocrites de son pays. Pour lui la femme est le devoir incarné.
A de rares exceptions près, ses héroïnes sont absolument les mêmes . . .
La femme porte le désordre dans la société par la passion. La passion a
des accidents infinis. Peignez donc les passions, vous aurez les sources
immenses dont s’est privé ce grand génie pour être lu dans toutes les
familles de la prude Angleterre.’ Does not Thackeray lament that since
Fielding no novelist has dared to face the national affectation of
prudery? No English author who valued his reputation would venture to
write as Anatole France writes, even if he could. Yet I pity the man who
does not delight in the genius that created M. Bergeret.
A well-known author said to me the other day, he did not believe that
Thackeray himself would be popular were he writing now for the first
time—not because of his freedom, but because the public taste has
altered. No present age can predict immortality for the works of its
day; yet to say that what is intrinsically good is good for all time is
but a truism. The misfortune is that much of the best in literature
shares the fate of the best of ancient monuments and noble cities; the
cumulative rubbish of ages buries their splendours, till we know not
where to find them. The day may come when the most valuable service of
the man of letters will be to unearth the lost treasures and display
them, rather than add his grain of dust to the ever-increasing middens.
Is Carlyle forgotten yet, I wonder? How much did my contemporaries owe
to him in their youth? How readily we followed a leader so sure of
himself, so certain of his own evangel. What an aid to strength to be
assured that the true hero is the morally strong man. One does not
criticise what one loves; one didn’t look too closely into the doctrine
that, might is right, for somehow he managed to persuade us that right
makes the might—that the strong man is the man who, for the most part,
does act rightly. He is not over-patient with human frailty, to be sure,
and is apt, as Herbert Spencer found, to fling about his scorn rather
recklessly. One fancies sometimes that he has more respect for a genuine
bad man than for a sham good one. In fact, his ‘Eternal Verities’ come
pretty much to the same as Darwin’s ‘Law of the advancement of all
organic bodies’; ‘let the strong live, and the weakest die.’ He had no
objection to seeing ‘the young cuckoo ejecting its foster-brothers, or
ants making slaves.’ But he atones for all this by his hatred of cant
and hypocrisy. It is for his manliness that we love him, for his
honesty, for his indifference to any mortal’s approval save that of
Thomas Carlyle. He convinces us that right thinking is good, but that
right doing is much better. And so it is that he does honour to men of
action like his beloved Oliver, and Fritz,—neither of them paragons of
wisdom or of goodness, but men of doughty deeds.
Just about this time I narrowly missed a longed-for chance of meeting
this hero of my _penates_. Lady Ashburton—Carlyle’s Lady
Ashburton—knowing my admiration, kindly invited me to The Grange, while
he was there. The house was full—mainly of ministers or
ex-ministers,—Cornewall Lewis, Sir Charles Wood, Sir James Graham, Albany
Fonblanque, Mr. Ellice, and Charles Buller—Carlyle’s only pupil; but the
great man himself had left an hour before I got there. I often met him
afterwards, but never to make his acquaintance. Of course, I knew
nothing of his special friendship for Lady Ashburton, which we are told
was not altogether shared by Mrs. Carlyle; but I well remember the
interest which Lady Ashburton seemed to take in his praise, how my
enthusiasm seemed to please her, and how Carlyle and his works were
topics she was never tired of discussing.
The South Western line to Alresford was not then made, and I had to post
part of the way from London to The Grange. My chaise companion was a man
very well known in ‘Society’; and though not remarkably popular, was not
altogether undistinguished, as the following little tale will attest.
Frederick Byng, one of the Torrington branch of the Byngs, was chiefly
famous for his sobriquet ‘The Poodle’; this he owed to no special merit
of his own, but simply to the accident of his thick curly head of hair.
Some, who spoke feelingly of the man, used to declare that he had
fulfilled the promises of his youth. What happened to him then may
perhaps justify the opinion.
The young Poodle was addicted to practical jokes—as usual, more amusing
to the player than to the playee. One of his victims happened to be Beau
Brummell, who, except when he bade ‘George ring the bell,’ was as perfect
a model of deportment as the great Mr. Turveydrop himself. His studied
decorum possibly provoked the playfulness of the young puppy; and amongst
other attempts to disturb the Beau’s complacency, Master Byng ran a pin
into the calf of that gentleman’s leg, and then he ran away. A few days
later Mr. Brummell, who had carefully dissembled his wrath, invited the
unwary youth to breakfast, telling him that he was leaving town, and had
a present which his young friend might have, if he chose to fetch it.
The boy kept the appointment, and the Beau his promise. After an
excellent breakfast, Brummell took a whip from his cupboard, and gave it
to the Poodle in a way the young dog was not likely to forget.
The happiest of my days then, and perhaps of my life, were spent at Mr.
Ellice’s Highland Lodge, at Glenquoich. For sport of all kinds it was
and is difficult to surpass. The hills of the deer forest are amongst
the highest in Scotland; the scenery of its lake and glens, especially
the descent to Loch Hourne, is unequalled. Here were to be met many of
the most notable men and women of the time. And as the house was twenty
miles from the nearest post-town, and that in turn two days from London,
visitors ceased to be strangers before they left. In the eighteen years
during which this was my autumn home, I had the good fortune to meet
numbers of distinguished people of whom I could now record nothing
interesting but their names. Still, it is a privilege to have known such
men as John Lawrence, Guizot, Thiers, Landseer, Mérimée, Comte de
Flahault, Doyle, Lords Elgin and Dalhousie, Duc de Broglie, Pélissier,
Panizzi, Motley, Delane, Dufferin; and of gifted women, the three
Sheridans, Lady Seymour—the Queen of Beauty, afterwards Duchess of
Somerset—Mrs. Norton, and Lady Dufferin. Amongst those who have a
retrospective interest were Mr. and Lady Blanche Balfour, parents of Mr.
Arthur Balfour, who came there on their wedding tour in 1843. Mr. Arthur
Balfour’s father was Mrs. Ellice’s first cousin.
It would be easy to lengthen the list; but I mention only those who
repeated their visits, and who fill up my mental picture of the place and
of the life. Some amongst them impressed me quite as much for their
amiability—their loveableness, I may say—as for their renown; and regard
for them increased with coming years. Panizzi was one of these.
Dufferin, who was just my age, would have fascinated anyone with the
singular courtesy of his manner. Dicky Doyle was necessarily a favourite
with all who knew him. He was a frequent inmate of my house after I
married, and was engaged to dine with me, alas! only eight days before he
died. Motley was a singularly pleasant fellow. My friendship with him
began over a volume of Sir W. Hamilton’s Lectures. He asked what I was
reading—I handed him the book.
‘Ah,’ said he, ‘there’s no mental gymnastic like metaphysics.’
Many a battle we afterwards had over them. When I was at Cannes in 1877
I got a message from him one day saying he was ill, and asking me to come
and see him. He did not say how ill, so I put off going. Two days after
I heard he was dead.
Mérimée’s cynicism rather alarmed one. He was a capital caricaturist,
though, to our astonishment, he assured us he had never drawn, or used a
colour-box, till late in life. He had now learnt to use it, in a way
that did not invariably give satisfaction. Landseer always struck me as
sensitive and proud, a Diogenes-tempered individual who had been spoilt
by the toadyism of great people. He was agreeable if made much of, or
almost equally so if others were made little of.
But of all those named, surely John Lawrence was the greatest. I wish I
had read his life before it ended. Yet, without knowing anything more of
him than that he was Chief Commissioner of the Punjab, which did not
convey much to my understanding, one felt the greatness of the man
beneath his calm simplicity. One day the party went out for a
deer-drive; I was instructed to place Sir John in the pass below mine.
To my disquietude he wore a black overcoat. I assured him that not a
stag would come within a mile of us, unless he covered himself with a
grey plaid, or hid behind a large rock there was, where I assured him he
would see nothing.
‘Have the deer to pass me before they go on to you?’ he asked.
‘Certainly they have,’ said I; ‘I shall be up there above you.’
‘Well then,’ was his answer, ‘I’ll get behind the rock—it will be more
snug out of the wind.’
One might as well have asked the deer not to see him, as try to persuade
John Lawrence not to sacrifice himself for others. That he did so here
was certain, for the deer came within fifty yards of him, but he never
fired a shot.
Another of the Indian viceroys was the innocent occasion of great
discomfort to me, or rather his wife was. Lady Elgin had left behind her
a valuable diamond necklace. I was going back to my private tutor at Ely
a few days after, and the necklace was entrusted to me to deliver to its
owner on my way through London. There was no railway then further north
than Darlington, except that between Edinburgh and Glasgow. When I
reached Edinburgh by coach from Inverness, my portmanteau was not to be
found. The necklace was in a despatch-box in my portmanteau; and by an
unlucky oversight, I had put my purse into my despatch-box. What was to
be done? I was a lad of seventeen, in a town where I did not know a
soul, with seven or eight shillings at most in my pocket. I had to break
my journey and to stop where I was till I could get news of the necklace;
this alone was clear to me, for the necklace was the one thing I cared
for.
At the coach office all the comfort I could get was that the lost luggage
might have gone on to Glasgow; or, what was more probable, might have
gone astray at Burntisland. It might not have been put on board, or it
might not have been taken off the ferry-steamer. This could not be known
for twenty-four hours, as there was no boat to or from Burntisland till
the morrow. I decided to try Glasgow. A return third-class ticket left
me without a copper. I went, found nothing, got back to Edinburgh at 10
P.M., ravenously hungry, dead tired, and so frightened about the necklace
that food, bed, means of continuing my journey, were as mere death
compared with irreparable dishonour. What would they all think of me?
How could I prove that I had not stolen the diamonds? Would Lord Elgin
accuse me? How could I have been such an idiot as to leave them in my
portmanteau! Some rascal might break it open, and then, goodbye to my
chance for ever! Chance? what chance was there of seeing that luggage
again? There were so many ‘mights.’ I couldn’t even swear that I had
seen it on the coach at Inverness. Oh dear! oh dear! What was to be
done? I walked about the streets; I glanced woefully at door-steps,
whereon to pass the night; I gazed piteously through the windows of a
cheap cook’s shop, where solid wedges of baked pudding, that would have
stopped digestion for a month, were advertised for a penny a block. How
rich should I have been if I had had a penny in my pocket! But I had to
turn away in despair.
At last the inspiration came. I remembered hearing Mr. Ellice say that
he always put up at Douglas’ Hotel when he stayed in Edinburgh. I had
very little hope of success, but I was too miserable to hesitate. It was
very late, and everybody might be gone to bed. I rang the bell. ‘I want
to see the landlord.’
‘Any name?’ the porter asked.
‘No.’ The landlord came, fat, amiable looking. ‘May I speak to you in
private?’ He showed the way to an unoccupied room. ‘I think you know
Mr. Ellice?’
‘Glenquoich, do you mean?’
‘Yes.’
‘Oh, very well—he always stays here on his way through.’
‘I am his step-son; I left Glenquoich yesterday. I have lost my luggage,
and am left without any money. Will you lend me five pounds?’ I believe
if I were in the same strait now, and entered any strange hotel in the
United Kingdom at half-past ten at night, and asked the landlord to give
me five pounds upon a similar security, he would laugh in my face, or
perhaps give me in charge of a policeman.
My host of Douglas’ did neither; but opened both his heart and his
pocket-book, and with the greatest good humour handed me the requested
sum. What good people there are in this world, which that crusty old Sir
Peter Teazle calls ‘a d—d wicked one.’ I poured out all my trouble to
the generous man. He ordered me an excellent supper, and a very nice
room. And on the following day, after taking a great deal of trouble, he
recovered my lost luggage and the priceless treasure it contained. It
was a proud and happy moment when I returned his loan, and convinced him,
of what he did not seem to doubt, that I was positively not a swindler.
But the roofless night and the empty belly, consequent on an empty
pocket, was a lesson which I trust was not thrown away upon me. It did
not occur to me to do so, but I certainly might have picked a pocket,
if—well, if I had been brought up to it. Honesty, as I have often
thought since, is dirt cheap if only one can afford it.
Before departing from my beloved Glenquoich, I must pay a passing tribute
to the remarkable qualities of Mrs. Edward Ellice and of her youngest
sister Mrs. Robert Ellice, the mother of the present member for St.
Andrews. It was, in a great measure, the bright intelligence, the rare
tact, and social gifts of these two ladies that made this beautiful
Highland resort so attractive to all comers.