BEFORE I went to America, I made the acquaintance of Dr. George Bird; he
continued to be one of my most intimate friends till his death, fifty
years afterwards. When I first knew him, Bird was the medical adviser
and friend of Leigh Hunt, whose family I used often to meet at his house.
He had been dependent entirely upon his own exertions; had married young;
and had had a pretty hard fight at starting to provide for his children
and for himself. His energy, his abilities, his exceeding amiability,
and remarkable social qualities, gradually procured him a large practice
and hosts of devoted friends. He began looking for the season for
sprats—the cheapest of fish—to come in; by middle life he was habitually
and sumptuously entertaining the celebrities of art and literature. With
his accomplished sister, Miss Alice Bird, to keep house for him, there
were no pleasanter dinner parties or receptions in London. His
_clientèle_ was mainly amongst the artistic world. He was a great friend
of Miss Ellen Terry’s, Mr. Marcus Stone and his sisters were frequenters
of his house, so were Mr. Swinburne, Mr. Woolner the sculptor—of whom I
was not particularly fond—Horace Wigan the actor, and his father, the
Burtons, who were much attached to him—Burton dedicated one volume of his
‘Arabian Nights’ to him—Sir William Crookes, Mr. Justin Macarthy and his
talented son, and many others.
The good doctor was a Radical and Home Ruler, and attended professionally
the members of one or two labouring men’s clubs for fees which, as far as
I could learn, were rigorously nominal. His great delight was to get an
order for the House of Commons, especially on nights when Mr. Gladstone
spoke; and, being to the last day of his life as simple-minded as a
child, had a profound belief in the statemanship and integrity of that
renowned orator.
As far as personality goes, the Burtons were, perhaps, the most notable
of the above-named. There was a mystery about Burton which was in itself
a fascination. No one knew what he had done; or consequently what he
might not do. He never boasted, never hinted that he had done, or could
do, anything different from other men; and, in spite of the mystery, one
felt that he was transparently honest and sincere. He was always the
same, always true to himself; but then, that ‘self’ was a something _per
se_, which could not be categorically classed—precedent for guidance was
lacking. There is little doubt Burton had gipsy blood in his veins;
there was something Oriental in his temperament, and even in his skin.
One summer’s day I found him reading the paper in the Athenæum. He was
dressed in a complete suit of white—white trousers, a white linen coat,
and a very shabby old white hat. People would have stared at him
anywhere.
‘Hullo, Burton!’ I exclaimed, touching his linen coat, ‘Do you find it so
hot—_déjà_?’
Said he: ‘I don’t want to be mistaken for other people.’
‘There’s not much fear of that, even without your clothes,’ I replied.
Such an impromptu answer as his would, from any other, have implied
vanity. Yet no man could have been less vain, or more free from
affectation. It probably concealed regret at finding himself
conspicuous.
After dinner at the Birds’ one evening we fell to talking of garrotters.
About this time the police reports were full of cases of garrotting. The
victim was seized from behind, one man gagged or burked him, while
another picked his pocket.
‘What should you do, Burton?’ the Doctor asked, ‘if they tried to
garrotte you?’
‘I’m quite ready for ’em,’ was the answer; and turning up his sleeve he
partially pulled out a dagger, and shoved it back again.
We tried to make him tell us what became of the Arab boy who accompanied
him to Mecca, and whose suspicions threatened Burton’s betrayal, and, of
consequence, his life. I don’t think anyone was present except us two,
both of whom he well knew to be quite shock-proof, but he held his
tongue.
‘You would have been perfectly justified in saving your own life at any
cost. You would hardly have broken the sixth commandment by doing so in
this case,’ I suggested.
‘No,’ said he gravely, ‘and as I had broken all the ten before, it
wouldn’t have so much mattered.’
The Doctor roared. It should, however, be stated that Burton took no
less delight in his host’s boyish simplicity, than the other in what he
deemed his guest’s superb candour.
‘Come, tell us,’ said Bird, ‘how many men have you killed?’
‘How many have you, Doctor?’ was the answer.
Richard Burton was probably the most extraordinary linguist of his day.
Lady Burton mentions, I think, in his Life, the number of languages and
dialects her husband knew. That Mahometans should seek instruction from
him in the Koran, speaks of itself for his astonishing mastery of the
greatest linguistic difficulties. With Indian languages and their
variations, he was as completely at home as Miss Youghal’s Sais; and, one
may suppose, could have played the _rôle_ of a fakir as perfectly as he
did that of a Mecca pilgrim. I asked him what his method was in learning
a fresh language. He said he wrote down as many new words as he could
learn and remember each day; and learnt the construction of the language
colloquially, before he looked at a grammar.
Lady Burton was hardly less abnormal in her way than Sir Richard. She
had shared his wanderings, and was intimate, as no one else was, with the
eccentricities of his thoughts and deeds. Whatever these might happen to
be, she worshipped her husband notwithstanding. For her he was the
standard of excellence; all other men were departures from it. And the
singularity is, her religious faith was never for an instant shaken—she
remained as strict a Roman Catholic as when he married her from a
convent. Her enthusiasm and cosmopolitanism, her _naïveté_ and the
sweetness of her disposition made her the best of company. She had lived
so much the life of a Bedouin, that her dress and her habits had an
Eastern glow. When staying with the Birds, she was attended by an Arab
girl, one of whose duties it was to prepare her mistress’ chibouk, which
was regularly brought in with the coffee. On one occasion, when several
other ladies were dining there, some of them yielded to Lady Burton’s
persuasion to satisfy their curiosity. The Arab girl soon provided the
means; and it was not long before there were four or five faces as white
as Mrs. Alfred Wigan’s, under similar circumstances, in the ‘Nabob.’
Alfred Wigan’s father was an unforgettable man. To describe him in a
word, he was Falstag _redivivus_. In bulk and stature, in age, in wit
and humour, and morality, he was Falstaff. He knew it and gloried in it.
He would complain with zest of ‘larding the lean earth’ as he walked
along. He was as partial to whisky as his prototype to sack. He would
exhaust a Johnsonian vocabulary in describing his ailments; and would
appeal pathetically to Miss Bird, as though at his last gasp, for ‘just a
tea-spoonful’ of the grateful stimulant. She served him with a liberal
hand, till he cried ‘Stop!’ But if she then stayed, he would softly
insinuate ‘I didn’t mean it, my dear.’ Yet he was no Costigan. His
brain was stronger than casks of whisky. And his powers of digestion
were in keeping. Indeed, to borrow the well-known words applied to a
great man whom we all love, ‘He tore his dinner like a famished wolf,
with the veins swelling in his forehead, and the perspiration running
down his cheeks.’ The trend of his thoughts, though he was eminently a
man of intellect, followed the dictates of his senses. Walk with him in
the fields and, from the full stores of a prodigious memory, he would
pour forth pages of the choicest poetry. But if you paused to watch the
lambs play, or disturbed a young calf in your path, he would almost
involuntarily exclaim: ‘How deliciously you smell of mint, my pet!’ or
‘Bless your innocent face! What sweetbreads you will provide!’
James Wigan had kept a school once. The late Serjeant Ballantine, who
was one of his pupils, mentions him in his autobiography. He was a good
scholar, and when I first knew him, used to teach elocution. Many actors
went to him, and not a few members of both Houses of Parliament. He
could recite nearly the whole of several of Shakespeare’s plays; and,
with a dramatic art I have never known equalled by any public reader.
His later years were passed at Sevenoaks, where he kept an establishment
for imbeciles, or weak-minded youths. I often stayed with him (not as a
patient), and a very comfortable and pretty place it was. Now and then
he would call on me in London; and, with a face full of theatrical woe,
tell me, with elaborate circumlocution, how the Earl of This, or the
Marquis of That, had implored him to take charge of young Lord So-and-So,
his son; who, as all the world knew, had—well, had ‘no guts in his
brains.’ Was there ever such a chance? Just consider what it must lead
to! Everybody knew—no, nobody knew—the enormous number of idiots there
were in noble families. And, such a case as that of young Lord
Dash—though of course his residence at Sevenoaks would be a profound
secret, would be patent to the whole peerage; and, my dear sir, a fortune
to your humble servant, if—ah! if he could only secure it!’
‘But I thought you said you had been implored to take him?’
‘I did say so. I repeat it. His Lordship’s father came to me with tears
in his eyes. “My dear Wigan,” were that nobleman’s words, “do me this
one favour and trust me, you will never regret it!” But—’ he paused to
remove the dramatic tear, ‘but, I hardly dare go on. Yes—yes, I know
your kindness’ (seizing my hand) ‘I know how ready you are to help me’—(I
hadn’t said a word)—‘but—’
‘How much is it this time? and what is it for?’
‘For? I have told you what it is for. The merest trifle will suffice.
I have the room—a beautiful room, the best aspect in the house. It is
now occupied by young Rumagee Bumagee the great Bombay millionaire’s son.
Of course he can be moved. But a bed—there positively is not a spare bed
in the house. This is all I want—a bed, and perhaps a tuppenny ha’penny
strip of carpet, a couple of chairs, a—let me see; if you give me a slip
of paper I can make out in a minute what it will come to.’
‘Never mind that. Will a ten-pound note serve your purposes?’
‘Dear boy! Dear boy! But on one condition, on one condition only, can I
accept it—this is a loan, a loan mind! and not a gift. No, no—it is
useless to protest; my pride, my sense of honour, forbids my acceptance
upon any other terms.’
A day or two afterwards I would learn from George Bird that he and Miss
Alice had accepted an invitation to meet me at Sevenoaks. Mr. Donovan,
the famous phrenologist, was to be of the party; the Rector of Sevenoaks,
and one or two local magnates, had also been invited to dine. We
Londoners were to occupy the spare rooms, for this was in the coaching
days.
We all knew what we had to expect—a most enjoyable banquet of
conviviality. Young Mrs. Wigan, his second wife, was an admirable
housekeeper, and nothing could have been better done. The turbot and the
haunch of venison were the pick of Grove’s shop, the champagne was iced
to perfection, and there was enough of it, as Mr. Donovan whispered to
me, casting his eyes to the ceiling, ‘to wash an omnibus, bedad.’ Mr.
Donovan, though he never refused Mr. Wigan’s hospitality, balanced the
account by vilipending his friend’s extravagant habits. While Mr. Wigan,
probably giving him full credit for his gratitude, always spoke of him as
‘Poor old Paddy Donovan.’
With Alfred Wigan, the eldest son, I was on very friendly terms. Nothing
could be more unlike his father. His manner in his own house was exactly
what it was on the stage. Albany Fonblanque, whose experiences began
nearly forty years before mine, and who was not given to waste his
praise, told me he considered Alfred Wigan the best ‘gentleman’ he had
ever seen on the stage. I think this impression was due in a great
measure to Wigan’s entire absence of affectation, and to his persistent
appeal to the ‘judicious’ but never to the ‘groundlings.’ Mrs. Alfred
Wigan was also a consummate artiste.