THROUGH the Cayley family, I became very intimate with their near
relatives the Worsleys of Hovingham, near York. Hovingham has now become
known to the musical world through its festivals, annually held at the
Hall under the patronage of its late owner, Sir William Worsley. It was
in his father’s time that this fine place, with its delightful family,
was for many years a home to me. Here I met the Alisons, and at the kind
invitation of Sir Archibald, paid the great historian a visit at Possil,
his seat in Scotland. As men who had achieved scientific or literary
distinction inspired me with far greater awe than those of the highest
rank—of whom from my childhood I had seen abundance—Alison’s celebrity,
his courteous manner, his oracular speech, his voluminous works, and his
voluminous dimensions, filled me with too much diffidence and respect to
admit of any freedom of approach. One listened to him, as he held forth
of an evening when surrounded by his family, with reverential silence.
He had a strong Scotch accent; and, if a wee bit prosy at times, it was
sententious and polished prose that he talked; he talked invariably like
a book. His family were devoted to him; and I felt that no one who knew
him could help liking him.
When Thackeray was giving readings from ‘The Four Georges,’ I dined with
Lady Grey and Landseer, and we three went to hear him. I had heard
Dickens read ‘The Trial of Bardell against Pickwick,’ and it was curious
to compare the style of the two great novelists. With Thackeray, there
was an entire absence of either tone or colour. Of course the historical
nature of his subject precluded the dramatic suggestion to be looked for
in the Pickwick trial, thus rendering comparison inapposite.
Nevertheless one was bound to contrast them. Thackeray’s features were
impassive, and his voice knew no inflection. But his elocution in other
respects was perfect, admirably distinct and impressive from its complete
obliteration of the reader.
The selection was from the reign of George the Third; and no part of it
was more attentively listened to than his passing allusion to himself.
‘I came,’ he says, ‘from India as a child, and our ship touched at an
island on the way home, where my black servant took me a long walk over
rocks and hills until we reached a garden, where we saw a man walking.
“That is he,” said the black man, “that is Bonaparte! He eats three
sheep every day, and all the little children he can lay hands on!”’ One
went to hear Thackeray, to see Thackeray; and the child and the black man
and the ogre were there on the stage before one. But so well did the
lecturer perform his part, that ten minutes later one had forgotten him,
and saw only George Selwyn and his friend Horace Walpole, and Horace’s
friend, Miss Berry—whom by the way I too knew and remember. One saw the
‘poor society ghastly in its pleasures, its loves, its revelries,’ and
the redeeming vision of ‘her father’s darling, the Princess Amelia,
pathetic for her beauty, her sweetness, her early death, and for the
extreme passionate tenderness with which her father loved her.’ The
story told, as Thackeray told it, was as delightful to listen to as to
read.
Not so with Dickens. He disappointed me. He made no attempt to
represent the different characters by varied utterance; but whenever
something unusually comic was said, or about to be said, he had a habit
of turning his eyes up to the ceiling; so that, knowing what was coming,
one nervously anticipated the upcast look, and for the moment lost the
illusion. In both entertainments, the reader was naturally the central
point of interest. But in the case of Dickens, when curiosity was
satisfied, he alone possessed one; Pickwick and Mrs. Bardell were put out
of court.
Was it not Charles Lamb, or was it Hazlitt, that could not bear to see
Shakespeare upon the stage? I agree with him. I have never seen a
Falstaff that did not make me miserable. He is even more impossible to
impersonate than Hamlet. A player will spoil you the character of
Hamlet, but he cannot spoil his thoughts. Depend upon it, we are
fortunate not to have seen Shakespeare in his ghost of Royal Denmark.
In 1861 I married Lady Katharine Egerton, second daughter of Lord Wilton,
and we took up our abode in Warwick Square, which, by the way, I had seen
a few years before as a turnip field. My wife was an accomplished
pianiste, so we had a great deal of music, and saw much of the artist
world. I may mention one artistic dinner amongst our early efforts at
housekeeping, which nearly ended with a catastrophe.
Millais and Dicky Doyle were of the party; music was represented by
Joachim, Piatti, and Hallé. The late Lord and Lady de Ros were also of
the number. Lady de Ros, who was a daughter of the Duke of Richmond, had
danced at the ball given by her father at Brussels the night before
Waterloo. As Lord de Ros was then Governor of the Tower, it will be
understood that he was a veteran of some standing. The great musical
trio were enchanting all ears with their faultless performance, when the
sweet and soul-stirring notes of the Adagio were suddenly interrupted by
a loud crash and a shriek. Old Lord de Ros was listening to the music on
a sofa at the further end of the room. Over his head was a large picture
in a heavy frame. What vibrations, what careless hanging, what
mischievous Ate or Discord was at the bottom of it, who knows? Down came
the picture on the top of the poor old General’s head, and knocked him
senseless on the floor. He had to be carried upstairs and laid upon a
bed. Happily he recovered without serious injury. There were many
exclamations of regret, but the only one I remember was Millais’. All he
said was: ‘And it is a good picture too.’
Sir Arthur Sullivan was one of our musical favourites. My wife had known
him as a chorister boy in the Chapel Royal; and to the end of his days we
were on terms of the closest intimacy and friendship. Through him we
made the acquaintance of the Scott Russells. Mr. Scott Russell was the
builder of the Crystal Palace. He had a delightful residence at
Sydenham, the grounds of which adjoined those of the Crystal Palace, and
were beautifully laid out by his friend Sir Joseph Paxton. One of the
daughters, Miss Rachel Russell, was a pupil of Arthur Sullivan’s. She
had great musical talent, she was remarkably handsome, exceedingly clever
and well-informed, and altogether exceptionally fascinating. Quite apart
from Sullivan’s genius, he was in every way a charming fellow. The
teacher fell in love with the pupil; and, as naturally, his love was
returned. Sullivan was but a youth, a poor and struggling music-master.
And, very naturally again, Mrs. Scott Russell, who could not be expected
to know what magic bâton the young maestro carried in his knapsack,
thought her brilliant daughter might do better. The music lessons were
put a stop to, and correspondence between the lovers was prohibited.
Once a week or so, either the young lady or the young gentleman would,
quite unexpectedly, pay us a visit about tea or luncheon time. And, by
the strangest coincidence, the other would be sure to drop in while the
one was there. This went on for a year or two. But destiny forbade the
banns. In spite of the large fortune acquired by Mr. Scott Russell—he
was the builder of the ‘Great Eastern’ as well as the Crystal
Palace—ill-advised or unsuccessful ventures robbed him of his well-earned
wealth. His beautiful place at Sydenham had to be sold; and the marriage
of Miss Rachel with young Arthur Sullivan was abandoned. She ultimately
married an Indian official.
Her story may here be told to the end. Some years later she returned to
England to bring her two children home for their education, going back to
India without them, as Indian mothers have to do. The day before she
sailed, she called to take leave of us in London. She was terribly
depressed, but fought bravely with her trial. She never broke down, but
shunted the subject, talking and laughing with flashes of her old
vivacity, about music, books, friends, and ‘dear old dirty London,’ as
she called it. When she left, I opened the street-door for her, and with
both her hands in mine, bade her ‘Farewell.’ Then the tears fell, and
her parting words were: ‘I am leaving England never to see it again.’
She was seized with cholera the night she reached Bombay, and died the
following day.
To return to her father, the eminent engineer. He was distinctly a man
of genius, and what is called ‘a character.’ He was always in the
clouds—not in the vapour of his engine-rooms, nor busy inventing machines
for extracting sunbeams from cucumbers, but musing on metaphysical
problems and abstract speculations about the universe generally. In
other respects a perfectly simple-minded man.
It was in his palmy days that he invited me to run down to Sheerness with
him, and go over the ‘Great Eastern’ before she left with the Atlantic
cable. This was in 1865. The largest ship in the world, and the first
Atlantic cable, were both objects of the greatest interest. The builder
did not know the captain—Anderson—nor did the captain know the builder.
But clearly, each would be glad to meet the other.
As the leviathan was to leave in a couple of days, everything on board
her was in the wildest confusion. Russell could not find anyone who
could find the Captain; so he began poking about with me, till we
accidentally stumbled on the Commander. He merely said that he was come
to take a parting glance at his ‘child,’ which did not seem of much
concern to the over-busy captain. He never mentioned his own name, but
introduced me as ‘my friend Captain Cole.’ Now, in those days, Captain
Cole was well known as a distinguished naval officer. To Russell’s
absent and engineering mind, ‘Coke’ had suggested ‘Cole,’ and ‘Captain’
was inseparable from the latter. It was a name to conjure with. Captain
Anderson took off his cap, shook me warmly by the hand, expressed his
pleasure at making my acquaintance, and hoped I, and my friend
Mr.—ahem—would come into his cabin and have luncheon, and then allow him
to show me over his ship. Scott Russell was far too deeply absorbed in
his surroundings to note any peculiarity in this neglect of himself and
marked respect for ‘Captain Cole.’ We made the round of the decks, then
explored the engine room. Here the designer found himself in an earthly
paradise. He button-holed the engineer and inquired into every crank,
and piston, and valve, and every bolt, as it seemed to me, till the
officer in charge unconsciously began to ask opinions instead of offering
explanations. By degrees the captain was equally astonished at the
visitor’s knowledge, and when at last my friend asked what had become of
some fixture or other which he missed, Captain Anderson turned to him and
exclaimed, ‘Why, you seem to know more about the ship than I do.’
‘Well, so I ought,’ says my friend, never for a moment supposing that
Anderson was in ignorance of his identity.
‘Indeed! Who then are you, pray?’
‘Who? Why, Scott Russell of course, the builder!’
There was a hearty laugh over it all. I managed to spare the captain’s
feelings by preserving my incognito, and so ended a pleasant day.