Chats in the Book-room
Of this Book only One Hundred and Fifty
Copies were privately printed for the
Author, on Arnold's Unbleached Handmade
Paper, in the month of January
1896---of which this is
_No. 25_
[Illustration: H.N. Pym]
[Illustration: _Walker and Boutall ph. fc._]
Chats in the
Book-room
By
Horace N. Pym
Editor of Caroline Fox's Journals; A Mother's Memoir;
A Tour Round my Book-shelves, etc. etc.
_With Portrait by MOLLY EVANS, and Two
Photogravures of the Book-room_
"If any one, whom you do not know, relates strange stories,
be not too ready to believe or report them, and yet (unless he is
one of your familiar acquaintance) be not too forward to contradict
him."--Sir Matthew Hale.
Privately Printed for the Author in the Year
1896 by Ballantyne, Hanson & Co.
_To_
_My Dearly Loved Son_
_Julian Tindale Pym_
_I dedicate these "Chats in the Book-room," to which I ask him to
extend that noble "Patience, sovereign o'er transmuted ill," which
gilds and elevates his life._
H. N. P.
Christmas,
Foxwold Chase, 1895.
Table of Contents
"_Youth longs and manhood strives, but age remembers,
Sits by the raked-up ashes of the past,
Spreads its thin hands above the whitening embers,
That warm its creeping life-blood till the last._"
O. W. Holmes.
PAGE
Introduction 1
CHAT I.
On Richard Corney Grain--His home qualities--His love for
children--His benevolence--His power of pathos--His letter
on a holiday 3
CHAT II.
On a portrait of General Wolfe--On the use of portraits in
country-houses--On a sale at Christie's--A curious story
about a curious sale 8
CHAT III.
On holiday trips--Across the Atlantic--Some humours of
the voyage--Some stories told in the gun-room 18
CHAT IV.
On a private visit to Newgate prison--In Execution
yard--Some anecdotes of the condemned 34
CHAT V.
On Book-binding--Some worthy members of the craft--On
over-work and the modern race for wealth--Charles Dickens
on work--A Song of the City--Anecdote of Mr. Anstey Guthrie 41
CHAT VI.
On an uninvited guest--Her illness--Her convalescence--Her
recovery--Her gratitude--On texts in bedrooms--A
welcoming banner 53
CHAT VII.
On some minor poets--On _vers de Société_--On
Praed, C. S. Calverley, Locker-Lampson, and Mr. A. Dobson 58
CHAT VIII.
On Mr. Punch and his founders--Concerning portraits of
Jerrold, Kenny Meadows, and Horace Mayhew--On Mr. Sala as a
painter--A letter from G. A. Sala 66
CHAT IX.
On our schooldays--On Bedford, past and present--On R. C.
Lehmann--A poem by him--A Christmas greeting by
H. E. Luxmoore 73
CHAT X.
On John Poole, the author of "Paul Pry"--His friendship with
Dickens--His letter to Dickens detailing the French
Revolution of 1848 82
CHAT XI.
On Ethie Castle--Its artistic treasures--A letter from
Charles II.--A true family ghost story 99
CHAT XII.
On Cardinal Manning--Dramatic effect at his _Academia_--On
Poets who are never read, or "hardly ever" 108
CHAT XIII.
On a true story, called "Jane will return"--On Hamilton's
"Parodies"--An unknown one, by the Rev. James Bolton 119
CHAT XIV.
On autographs--Mr. James Payn and his lay-sermons--Mrs.
Charles Fox of Trebah--Her friendship with Hartley
Coleridge--A letter from him--A letter from John Bright
to Caroline Fox--Mr. Ruskin as a mineral
collector--Five unpublished letters from him 125
CHAT XV.
On Mrs. Lyne Stephens--The story of her early
life--Thackeray's sketch of her--Her art
collections--A wonderful sale at Christie's--Her charities
and friendships--Her death--Her funeral
sermon--Her portraits 143
"_I come not here your morning hour to sadden,
A limping pilgrim, leaning on his staff,--
I, who have never deemed it sin to gladden
This vale of sorrows with a wholesome laugh._"
--The Iron Gate.
List of Illustrations
Portrait _To face the Title Page_
The Book-room (First View) _Page_ 58
The Book-room (Second View) " 113
Introduction.
"_Some of your griefs you have cured,
And the sharpest you still have survived;
But what torments of pain you endured,
From evils that never arrived!_"
A few years ago a little inconsequent volume was launched on partial
acquaintance, telling of some ordinary books which line our friendly
shelves, of some kindly friends who had read and chatted about them,
some old stories they had told, and some happy memories they had
awakened.
When those acquaintances had read the little book, they asked, like
Oliver, for more. A rash request, because, unlike Oliver, they get it
in the shape of another "Olla Podrida" of book-chat, picture-gossip,
and perchance a stray "chestnut." Their good-nature must be invoked to
receive it, like C. S. Calverley's sojourners--
"Who when they travel, if they find
That they have left their pocket-compass,
Or Murray, or thick boots behind,
They raise no rumpus."
Chat No. 1.
"_Lie softly, Leisure! Doubtless you,
With too serene a conscience drew
Your easy breath, and slumbered through
The gravest issue;
But we, to whom our age allows
Scarce space to wipe our weary brows,
Look down upon your narrow house,
Old friend, and miss you._"
--Austin Dobson.
Since we made our last "Tour Round the Book-shelves," death has
removed one of the kindest friends, and most genial companions, of
the Book-room. In Richard Corney Grain, Foxwold has lost one of its
pleasantest and most welcome guests, and it is doubtful, well as the
public cared for and appreciated his genius, if it knew or suspected
how generous a heart, and how wide a charity, moved beneath that
massive frame. When rare half-holidays came, it was no uncommon thing
for Dick Grain to dedicate them to the solace and amusement of some
hospital or children's home, where, with a small cottage piano, he
would, moving from ward to ward, give the suffering patients an hour's
freedom from their pain, and some happy laughs amid their misery.
One day, after a series of short performances in the different parts of
one of our large London hospitals, he was about to sing in the accident
ward, when the secretary to the hospital gravely asked him "Not to be
too funny in this room, for fear he'd make the patients burst their
bandages!"
Dick Grain was never so happy, so natural, or so amusing as when, of
his own motion, he was singing to a nursery full of children in a
country house.
Those who knew him well were aware that, delightful as were all his
humorous impersonations, he had a graver and more impressive side to
his lovable and admirable character, and that he would sometimes, when
sure he would be understood, sing a pathetic song, which made the tears
flow as rapidly as in others the smiles had been evoked.
Who that heard it will forget his little French song, supposed to be
sung by one of the first Napoleon's old Guard for bread in the streets.
He sang in a terrible, hoarse, cracked voice a song of victory,
breaking off in the middle of a line full of the sound of battle to
cough a hacking cough, and beg a sous for the love of God!
Subjoined is one of his friendly little notes, full of the quiet happy
humour that made him so welcome a guest in every friend's house.
Hothfield Place,
Ashford, Kent.
"My dear Pym,
I shall be proud to welcome you and Mrs. Pym on Wednesday the
26th, but why St. George's Hall? Why not go at once to a play and
not to an entertainment? Plays at night. Entertainments in the
afternoon. Besides, we are so empty in the evenings now, the new
piece being four weeks overdue. Anyhow, I hope to see you at 8
Weymouth Street on Nov. 26th, at any hour after my work, say 10.15
or 10.30, and so on, every quarter of an hour.
"I am dwelling in the Halls of the Great, waited on by powdered
menials, who rather look down on me, I think, and hide my clothes,
and lay things out I don't wish to put on, and button my collar
on to my shirt, and my braces on to my----, and when I try to
throw the braces over my shoulders I hit my head with the buckle,
and get my collar turned upside down, and tear out the buttons in
my endeavours to get it right; and they fill my bath so full, that
the displacement caused by my unwieldy body sends quarts of water
through the ceiling on to the drawing-room--the Red Drawing-room.
Piano covered with the choicest products of Eastern towns. Luckily
the party is small, so we only occupy the Dragon's Blood Room, so
perhaps they won't notice it. But a truce to fooling till Nov.
26.--Yours sincerely,
R. Corney Grain."
_Nov. 16, 1890._
He was one of the most gifted, warmest-hearted friends; his cynicism
was all upon the surface, and was never unkind, the big heart beat true
beneath. His premature death has eclipsed the honest gaiety of this
nation--"he should have died hereafter."
Chat No. 2.
"_Sound, sound the clarion, fill the fife!
To all the sensual world proclaim,
One crowded hour of glorious life,
Is worth an age without a name._"
--Old Mortality.
A picture hangs at Foxwold of supreme interest and beauty, being a
portrait of General Wolfe by Gainsborough. Its history is shortly
this--painted in Bath in 1758, probably for Miss Lowther, to whom he
was then engaged, and whose miniature he was wearing when death claimed
him; it afterwards became the property of Mr. Gibbons, a picture
collector, who lived in the Regent's Park in London, descending in due
course to his son, whose widow eventually sold it to Thomas Woolner,
the R.A. and sculptor; it was bought for Foxwold from Mrs. Woolner in
1895.
The great master has most wonderfully rendered the hero's long, gaunt,
sallow face lit up by fine sad eyes full of coming sorrow and present
ill-health. His cocked hat and red coat slashed with silver braid are
brilliantly painted, whilst his red hair is discreetly subdued by a
touch of powder.
One especial interest that attends this picture in its present home is,
that within two miles of Foxwold he was born, and passed some youthful
years in the picturesque little town of Westerham, his birthplace,
and that his short and wonderful career will always be especially
connected with Squerryes Court, then the property of his friend George
Warde, and still in the possession of that family.
Until recently no adequate or satisfactory life of Wolfe existed,
but Mr. A. G. Bradley has now filled the gap with his beautiful and
affecting monograph for the Macmillan Series of English Men of Action:
a little book which should be read by every English boy who desires to
know by what means this happy land is what it is.
In country houses the best decoration is portraits, portraits, and
always portraits. In the town by all means show fine landscape and
sea-scape--heathery hills and blue seas--fisher folks and plough
boys--but when from your windows the happy autumn fields and glowing
woods are seen, let the eye returning to the homely walls be cheered
with the answer of face to face, human interests and human features
leading the memory into historic channels and memory's brightest
corners. How pleasant it is in the room where, in the spirit, we now
meet, to chat beneath the brilliant eyes of R. B. Sheridan, limned by
Sir Joshua, or to note with a smile the dignified importance of Fuseli,
painted by Harlow, or to turn to the last portrait of Sir Joshua
Reynolds, painted by himself, and of which picture Mr. Ruskin once
remarked, "How deaf he has drawn himself."
Of the fashion in particular painters' works, Christie's rooms give
a most instructive object-lesson. It is within the writer's memory
when Romneys could be bought for £20 apiece, and now that they are
fetching thousands, the wise will turn to some other master at present
neglected, and gather for his store pictures quite as full of beauty
and truth, and whose price will not cause his heirs to blaspheme.
A constant watchful attendance at Christie's is in itself a liberal
education, and it seldom happens that those who know cannot during its
pleasant season find "that grain of gold" which is often hidden away
in a mass of mediocrity. And then those clever, courteous members of
the great house are always ready to give the modest inquirer the full
benefit of their vast knowledge, and, if necessary, will turn to their
priceless records, and guide the timid, if appreciative, visitor into
the right path of selection.
What a delightful thing it is to be present at a field-day in King
Street. The early lunch at the club--the settling into a backed-chair
at the exactly proper angle to the rostrum and the picture-stand. (The
rostrum, by the way, was made by Chippendale for the founder of the
house.) At one o'clock the great Mr. Woods winds his way through the
expectant throng, and is promptly shut into his pulpit, the steps of
which are as promptly tucked in and the business and pleasure of the
afternoon begins. Mr. Woods, dominating his audience
"As some tall cliff, that lifts its awful form,
Swells from the vale, and midway leaves the storm,"
gives a quick glance round the big room, now filled with well-known
faces, whose nod to the auctioneer is often priceless. Sir William
Agnew rubs shoulders with Lord Rosebery, and Sir T. C. Robinson
whispers his doubts of a picture to a Trustee of the National
Collection; old Mr. Vokins extols, if you care to listen, the old
English water-colourists, to many of whom he was a good friend, and Mr.
George Redford makes some notes of the best pictures for the Press; but
Mr. Woods' quiet incisive voice demands silence as Lot 1 is offered
with little prefix, and soon finds a buyer at a moderate price.
The catalogues, which read so pleasantly and convey so much within a
little space, are models of clever composition, beginning with items of
lesser interest and carefully leading up to the great attractions of
the afternoon, which fall to the bid of thousands of guineas from some
great picture-buyer, amidst the applause of the general crowd.
A pure Romney, a winsome Gainsborough, a golden Turner, or a Corot
full of mystery and beauty, will often evoke a round of hand-clapping
when it appears upon the selling-easel, and a swift and sharp contest
between two or three well-known connoisseurs will excite the audience
like a horse-race, a fencing bout, or a stage drama.
The history of Christie's is yet to be written, notwithstanding Mr.
Redford's admirable work on "Art Sales," and when it is written it
should be one of the most fascinating histories of the nineteenth
century; but where is the Horace Walpole to indite such a work? and who
possesses the necessary materials?
One curious little history I can tell concerning a sale in recent years
of the Z---- collection of pictures and _objets d'art_, which will, to
those who know it not, prove "a strange story."
A former owner, distinguished by his social qualities and position, in
a fit of passion unfortunately killed his footman. The wretched victim
had no friends, and was therefore not missed, and the only person,
besides his slayer, aware of his death, and how it was caused, was
the butler. The crime was therefore successfully concealed, and no
inquiries made. But after a little time the butler began to use his
knowledge for his own personal purposes.
Putting the pressure of the blackmailer upon his unhappy master, he
began to make him sing, by receiving as the price of his silence, first
a fine picture or two, then some rare china, followed by art furniture,
busts, more pictures, and more china, until he had well-nigh stripped
the house.
Still, like the daughter of the horse-leech, crying, "Give, give!" he
made his nominal master assign to him the entire estates, reserving
only to himself a life interest, which, in his miserable state of
bondage, did not last long.
The chief butler on his master's death took his name and possessions,
ousting the rightful heirs; and after enjoying a wicked, but not
uncommon, prosperity with his stolen goods for some years, he also died
in the odour of sanctity, and went to his own place.
His successors, hearing uneasy rumours, determined to be rid of their
tainted inheritance; so placed all the pictures and pretty things in
the sale-market, and otherwise disposed of their ill-gotten property.
Chat No. 3.
"_Where shall we adventure, to-day that we're afloat,
Wary of the weather, and steering by a star?
Shall it be to Africa, a-steering of the boat,
To Providence, or Babylon, or off to Malabar._"
--R. L. Stevenson.
The best holiday for an over-worked man, who has little time to spare,
and who has not given "hostages to fortune," is to sail across the
herring-pond on a Cunarder or White Star hotel, and so get free from
newspapers, letters, visitors, dinner-parties, and all the daily
irritations of modern life.
Those grand Atlantic rollers fill the veins with new life, the tired
brain with fresh ideas; and the happy, idle days slip away all too
soon, after which a short stay in New York or Boston City, and then
back again.
The study of character on board is always pleasant and instructive, and
sometimes a happy friendship is begun which lasts beyond the voyage.
Then, again, the cliques into which the passengers so naturally fall,
is funny to watch. The reading set, who early and late occupy the
best placed chairs, and wade through a vast mass of miscellaneous
literature, and are only roused therefrom by the ringing summons to
meals; then there is the betting and gambling set, who fill card and
smoking room as long as the rules permit, coming to the surface now
and then for breath, and to see what the day's run has been, or to
organise fresh sweepstakes; then there is often an evangelical set,
who gather in a ring upon the deck, if permitted, and sing hymns, and
address in fervid tones the sinners around them; then there are the
gossips (most pleasant folk these), the flirts, the deck pedestrians,
those who dress three times a day, and those who dress hardly at all:
and so the drama of a little world is played before a very appreciative
little audience.
I remember on such a journey being greatly interested in the study of a
delightful rugged old Scotch engineer, whose friendship I obtained by a
genuine admiration for his devotion to his engines, and his belief in
their personality. It was his habit in the evening, after a long day's
run, to sit alongside these throbbing monsters and play his violin to
them, upon which he was a very fair performer, saying, "They deserved
cheering up a bit after such a hard day's work!" This was a real and
serious sentiment on his part, and inspired respect and an amused
admiration on ours.
The humours of one particular voyage which I have in my memory, were
delightfully intensified by the presence on board of a very charming
American child, called Flossie L----, about fourteen years old, who by
her capital repartees, acute observation, and pretty face, kept her
particular set of friends very much alive, and made all who knew her,
her devoted slaves and admirers.
Her remark upon a preternaturally grave person, who marched the deck
each day before our chairs, "that she guessed he had a lot of laughter
coiled up in him somewhere," proved, before the voyage was over, to be
quite true.
It was this gentleman who, one morning, solemnly confided to a friend
that he was a little suspicious of the drains on board!
Americanisms, which are now every one's property, were at this time--I
am speaking of twenty years ago--not so common, and glided from
Flossie's pretty lips most enchantingly. To be told on a wet morning,
with half a gale of wind blowing, "to put on a skin-coat and gum-boots"
to meet the elements, was at that day startling, if useful, advice. She
professed a serious attachment for a New York cousin, aged sixteen,
"Because," she said, "he is so dissolute, plays cards, smokes cigars,
reads novels, and runs away when offered candy." Her quieter moments on
deck were passed in reading 'Dombey and Son,' which, when finished,
she pronounced to be all wrong, "only one really nice man in the
book--Carker--and he ought to have married Floey."
Mr. Hugh Childers, then First Lord of the Admiralty, was a passenger
on board our boat, and having with infinite kindness and patience
explained to the child our daily progress with a big chart spread on
the deck and coloured pins, was somewhat startled to see her execute
a _pas seul_ over his precious map and disappear down the nearest
gangway, with the remark, "My sakes, Mr. Childers, how terribly
frivolous you are!"
She had a youthful brother on board, who, one day at dinner, astonished
his table by coolly saying, as he pointed to a most inoffensive old
lady dining opposite to him, "Steward, take away that woman, she makes
me sick!"
A stout and amiable friend of Flossie's, who shall be nameless in
these blameless records, on coming in sight of land assumed, and I
fear did it very badly, some emotion at the first sight of her great
country, only to be crushed by her immediate order, given in the sight
and hearing of some hundred delighted passengers, "Sailor, give this
trembling elephant an arm, I guess he's going to be sick!" Luckily for
him the voyage was practically over, but for its small remnant he was
known to every one on board as the trembling elephant.
One day a pleasant little American neighbour at dinner touched one's
sense of humour by naïvely saying, "If you don't remove that nasty
little boiled hen in front of you, I know I must be ill."
Then there was a dull and solemn prig on board, who at every meal
gave us, unasked, and _apropos des bottes_, some tremendous facts and
statistics to digest, such as the number of shrimps eaten each year
in London, or how many miles of iron tubing go to make the Saltash
bridge. Finding one morning on his deck-chair, just vacated, a copy
of Whitaker's Almanack and a volume of Mayhew's "London Labour and
the London Poor," we recognised the source of his elucidations, and
promptly consigned his precious books to a watery grave. Of that
voyage, so far as he was concerned, the rest was silence.
Upon remarking to an American on board that the gentleman in question
was rather slow, he brought down a Nasmyth hammer with which to crack
his nut by saying, "Slow, sir; yes, he's a big bit slower than the hour
hand of eternity!"
I remember on another pleasant voyage to Boston meeting and forming
lasting friendship with the late Judge Abbott of that city, whose
stories and conversation were alike delightful. He spoke of a rival
barrister, who once before the law courts, on opening his speech for
the defence of some notorious prisoner, said, "Gentlemen, I shall
divide my address to you into three parts, and in the first I shall
confine myself to the _Facts_ of this case; secondly, I shall endeavour
to explain the _Law_ of this case; and finally, I shall make an
all-fired rush at your passions!"
It was Judge Abbott who told me that when at the Bar he defended, and
successfully, a young man charged with forging and uttering bank-notes
for large values. After going fully into the case, he was entirely
convinced of his client's innocence, an impression with which he
succeeded in imbuing the court. After his acquittal, his client, to
mark his extreme sense of gratitude to his counsel's ability, insisted
upon paying him double fees. The judge's pleasure at this compliment
became modified, when it soon after proved that the said fees were
remitted in notes undoubtedly forged, and for the making of which he
had just been tried and found "not guilty!"
Speaking one day of the general ignorance of the people one met, he
very aptly quoted one of Beecher Ward's witty aphorisms, "That it
is wonderful how much knowledge some people manage to steer clear
of." Another quotation of his from the same ample source, I remember
especially pleased me. Speaking of the morbid manner in which many
dwelt persistently on the more sorrowful incidents and accidents of
their lives, he said, "Don't nurse your sorrows on your knee, but spank
them and put them to bed!"
On one visit to the States I took a letter of special commendation to
the worthy landlord of the Parker House Hotel in Boston. On arriving
I delivered my missive at the bar, was told the good gentleman was
out, was duly allotted excellent rooms, and later on sat down with
an English travelling companion to an equally excellent dinner in
the ladies' saloon. In the middle of our repast we saw a small
Jewish-looking man wending his way between the many tables in, what
is literally, the marble hall, towards us. Standing beside our table,
and regarding us with the benignant expression of an archbishop,
he carefully, though unasked, filled and emptied a bumper of our
well-iced Pommery Greno, saying, "Now, gentlemen, don't rise, but my
name's Parker!"
Upon a first visit to America few things are more striking than the
originality and vigour of some of the advertisements. One advocating
the use of some hair-wash or cream pleased us greatly by the simple
reason it gave for its purchase, "that it was both elegant and chaste."
Another huge placard represented our Queen Victoria arrayed in crown,
robes, and sceptre, drinking old Jacob Townsend's Sarsaparilla out of
a pewter pint-pot. I also saw a most elaborate allegorical design with
life-size figures, purporting to induce you to buy and try somebody's
tobacco. I remember that a tall Yankee, supposed to represent Passion,
was smoking the said tobacco in a very fiery and aggressive manner,
that with one hand he was binding Youth and Folly together with chains,
presumably for refusing him a light, whilst with the other he chucked
Vice under the chin, she having apparently been more amenable and
polite.
To note how customs change, I one day in New York entered a car in the
Broadway, taking the last vacant seat. A few minutes, and we stopped
again to admit a stout negress laden with her market purchases. The car
was hot, and I was glad to yield her my seat, and stand on the cooler
outside platform. She took it with a wide grin, saying with a dramatic
wave of her dusky paw, "You, sir, am a gentleman, de rest am 'ogs!" a
speech which would not so many years ago have probably cost her her
life at the next lamppost.
A Washington doctor once told me the following little story, which
seems to hold a peculiar humour of its own. A country lad and lassie,
promised lovers, are in New York for a day's holiday. He takes her into
one of those sugar-candy, preserved fruit, ice, and pastry shops which
abound, and asks her tenderly what she'll have? She thinks she'll try
a brandied peach. The waiter places a large glass cylinder holding
perhaps a couple of dozen of them on their table, so that they may help
themselves. These peaches, be it known, are preserved in a spirituous
syrup, with the whole kernels interspersed, and are very expensive.
To the horror of the young man, the girl just steadily worked her way
through the whole bottleful. Having accomplished this feat without
turning a hair, she pauses, when the lover, in a delicate would-be
sarcastic note, asks with effusion, if she won't try another peach? To
which the girl coyly answers, "No thank you, I don't like them, the
seeds scratch my throat!"
As is well known, most of the waiters and servants in American hotels
are Irish. Dining with a dear old Canadian friend at the Windsor Hotel
in New York, we were particularly amused by the quaint look and speech
of the Irish gentleman who condescended to bring us our dinner. He had
a face like an unpeeled kidney potato, with twinkling merry little
blue eyes. Not feeling well, I had prescribed for myself a water diet
during the meal, and hoped my guest would atone for my shortcomings
with the wine. After he had twice helped himself to champagne, the
while I modestly sipped my seltzer, my waiter's indignation at what
he supposed was nothing less than base treachery, found vent in the
following stage-aside to me: "Hev an oi, sorr, on your frind, he's
a-gaining on ye!"
Chat No. 4.
"_Give them strength to brook and bear,
Trial pain, and trial care;
Let them see Thy saving light;
Be Thou 'Watchman of their night.'_"
--Sabbath Evening Song.
Armed with a special order of the then Lord Mayor, Sir Robert Nicholas
Fowler, I sallied forth one lovely blue day in June, and timidly rang
the little brass bell beside the little green door giving into Newgate
Prison.
The gaol is now only used to house the prisoners on the days of trial,
and for executions on the days of expiation; at other times, save for
the presence of a couple of warders, it is entirely empty, and empty it
was on this my day of call.
Presenting my mandate to the very civil warder who replied to my
summons, I was (he having to guard the door) handed to his colleague's
care, to be shown the mysteries of this great silent tomb, lying so
gloomily amid the City's stir.
The first point of interest was the chapel, with that terribly
suggestive chair, standing alone in the centre of the floor opposite
the pulpit, on which the condemned used to sit the Sunday before his
dreadful death, and, the observed of all the other prisoners, heard
his own funeral sermon preached--a refinement of cruelty difficult
to understand in this very Christian country. Then followed a visit
to the condemned cells, two in number, and which are situated far
below the level of the outside street. They are small square rooms
with whitewashed walls, enlivened by one or two peculiarly ill-chosen
texts; in each is a fixed truckle bedstead, with a warder's fixed seat
on either side. The warder in attendance stated that he had passed
many nights in them with condemned prisoners, and had rarely found his
charges either restless or unable to sleep well, long, and calmly!
There is an old story told of a murderer, about whose case some doubt
was raised, and to whom the prison chaplain, as he lay under sentence
of death, lent a Bible. In due course a free pardon arrived, and as the
prisoner left the gaol, he turned to the chaplain saying, "Well, sir,
here's your Bible; many thanks for the loan of it, and I only hope I
shall never want it again."
Then we visited the pinioning room; this process is carried out by
strapping on a sort of leather strait-waistcoat, with buckles at the
back and outside sockets for the arms and wrists. While putting on one
of these, I found the leather was cold and damp; it then occurred to
me, with some horror, that it was still moist with the death-sweat of
the executed.
The scaffold stands alone across one of the yards, in a little wooden
building not inappropriately like a butcher's shop. When used, the
large shutter in front is let down, and the interior is seen to consist
of a heavy cross-beam on two uprights, a link or two of chain in the
middle, a very deep drop, with padded leather sides to deaden the sound
of the falling platform, a covered space on one side for the coffin,
and on the other a strong lever, such as is used on railways to move
the points, and which here draws the bolt, releasing the platform on
which the culprit stands; a high stool for the victim, should he prove
nervous or faint--and that is all the furniture and fittings of this
gruesome building.
The dark cell is perhaps the most dreadful part of this peculiarly
ghastly show, and after being shut in it for a few minutes, which
seemed hours, one fully understood its terrific taming power over the
most rebellious prisoners: you are literally enveloped in a sort of
velvety blackness that can be felt, which, with the absolute and awful
silence, seemed to force the blood to the head and choke one.
Upon asking the warder to tell us something of the idiosyncrasies of
the more celebrated criminals he had known, he stated that Wainright
the murderer was the most talkative, vain, and boastful person he had
seen there, that his craving for tobacco was curiously extreme, and
he was immensely gratified when the governor of the prison promised
him a large cigar the night before his execution. The promise kept, he
walked up and down the yard with the governor, detailing with unctuous
pleasure his youthful amours and deceptions, like another Pepys. "But,"
added my informant, "the pleasantest, cheeriest man we ever had to hang
in my time was Dr. Lampson, full of fun and anecdote, with nice manners
that made him friends all round. He was outwardly very brave in facing
his fate, and yet, as he walked to the scaffold, those behind him saw
all the back muscles writhing, working, and twitching like snakes in a
bag, and thus belying the calm face and gentle smile in front. Ah! we
missed him very much indeed, and were very sorry to lose him. A real
gentleman he was in every way!"
It was pleasant, and a vast relief after this strange experience, to
emerge suddenly from this dream of mad, sad, bad things into the roar
of the City streets, to see the blue sky, and find men's faces looking
once again pleasantly into our own; but, nevertheless, Newgate should
be seen by the curious, and those who can do so without coercion,
before it disappears.
Chat No. 5.
"_To all their dated backs he turns you round:
These Aldus printed, those Du Sueil has bound._"
--Pope.
It is the present fashion to extol the old bookbinders at the expense
of the living, and for collectors to give fabulous prices for a volume
bound by De Thou, Geoffroy Tory, Philippe le Noir, the two Eves
(Nicolas and Clovis), Le Gascon, Derome, and others.
Beautiful, rare, and interesting as their work is, I venture to say
that we have modern bookbinders in England and France who can, and do,
if you give them plenty of time and a free hand as to price, produce
work as fine, as original, as closely thought out, as beautiful in
design, material, and colour, as that of any of the great masters of
the craft of olden days.
For perfectly simple work of the best kind, examine the bindings of
the late Francis Bedford; and his name reminds me of a curious freak
of the late Duke of Portland in relation to this art. He subscribed
for all the ordinary newspapers and magazines of the day, and instead
of consigning them to the waste-paper basket when read, had them whole
bound in beautiful crushed morocco coats of many colours by the said
Bedford; then he had perfectly fitting oaken boxes made, lined with
white velvet, and fitted with a patent Bramah lock and duplicate keys,
each box to hold one volume, the total cost of thus habiting this
literary rubbish being about £40 a volume. Bedford kept a special staff
of expert workmen upon this curious standing order until the Duke died.
By his will he, unfortunately, made them heirlooms, otherwise they
would have sold well as curiosities, many bibliophiles liking to have
possessed a volume with so odd a history. Soon after the Duke's death I
went over the well-known house in Cavendish Square with my kind friend
Mr. Woods of King Street, and he showed me piles of these boxes, each
containing its beautifully bound volume of uselessness.
But to return to our sheepskins. I would ask, where can you see finer
workmanship than Mr. Joseph W. Zaehnsdorf puts into his enchanting
covers? He once produced two lovely pieces of softly tanned,
vellum-like leather of the purest white colour, and asked if I knew
what they were. After some ineffectual guesses, he stated that the
one with the somewhat coarser texture was a man's skin, and the finer
specimen a woman's. The idea was disagreeable, and I declined to
purchase or to have any volumes belonging to my simple shelves clothed
in such garments.
An English bookbinder who made a name in his day was Hayday; he
flourished (as the biographical dictionaries are fond of saying) in
the beginning of the present reign. I possess Samuel Rogers' "Poems"
and "Italy," in two quarto volumes, bound by him very charmingly. In
this size Turner's drawings, which illustrate these two books, are
shown to admiration, and alone galvanise these otherwise dreary works.
Hayday was succeeded by one Mansell, who also did some good work; but
I think domestic affliction beclouded his later years, and affected his
business, as I have lost sight of him for some years.
Among other English bookbinders of the present day I would name Tout,
whose simple, Quaker-like work, with Grolier tooling, is worth seeing.
Mackenzie was, in his day, a good old Scotch binder; but the treasure
I have personally found and introduced to many, is my excellent friend
Mr. Birdsall of Northampton. His specialty is supposed to be in vellum
bindings, which material he manipulates with a grace and finish very
satisfactory to see. He can make the hinges of a vellum-bound book
swing as easily as a friend's door. He spares no time, thought, or
trouble in working out suitable designs for the books entrusted to his
care. For instance, I possess Benjamin D'Israeli's German Grammar,
used by him when a boy, and to bind it as he felt it deserved, he
specially cast a brass stamp, with D'Israeli's crest, which, impressed
adown the back and on the panels, correctly finishes this interesting
memento. Then, again, when he had Beau Brummell's "Life" to work upon,
he used dies representing a poppy, as an emblem flower, a money-bag,
very empty, and a teasel, signifying the hanger-on: these show thought,
as well as a pleasant fancy, and greatly add to the interest of the
completed binding.
I have some work by M. Marius Michel, the great French binder, whose
show-cases in the Faubourg-Saint-Germain, in Paris, were a treat to
examine. He was kind enough to let me one fine day select and take
therefrom two volumes of E. A. Poe's works translated and noted by
Beaudelaire, beautifully clothed by him; and he, at the same visit,
gave me an autograph copy of his "L'Ornamentation des Reliures
Modernes," with which, when I returned to England, I asked Mr. Birdsall
to do what he could. Set a binder to catch a binder, was in this case
our motto, and Mr. Birdsall has, I think, fairly caught out his great
rival, although I have not yet had an opportunity of taking M. Michel's
opinion upon the Englishman's work.
* * * * *
One of the leading characteristics of the present day is its craze
for work, unceasing work, work early and late, work done with a rush,
destroying nerves, and rendering repose impossible. "Late taking rest
and eating the bread of carefulness" do not go together, the bread
being as a rule anything but carefully consumed. R. L. Stevenson
somewhere says, "So long as you are a bit of a coward, and inflexible
in money matters, you fulfil the whole duty of man," and perhaps this
is the creed of the present race of over-workers. In the City of London
we see this hasting to be rich brought to the perfection of a Fine Art
(with a capital F and a capital A).
Charles Dickens, who always resolved the wit of every question into a
nutshell, makes Eugene Wrayburn, in "Our Mutual Friend," strenuously
object to being always urged forward in the path of energy.
"There's nothing like work," said Mr. Boffin; "look at the bees!"
"I beg your pardon," returned Eugene, with a reluctant smile, "but will
you excuse my mentioning that I always protest against being referred
to the bees? ... I object on principle, as a two-footed creature,
to being constantly referred to insects and four-footed creatures.
I object to being required to model my proceedings according to the
proceedings of the bee, or the dog, or the spider, or the camel. I
fully admit that the camel, for instance, is an excessively temperate
person; but he has several stomachs to entertain himself with, and I
have only one." ...
"But," urged Mr. Boffin, "I said the bee, they work."
"Yes," returned Eugene disparagingly, "they work, but don't you think
they overdo it? They work so much more than they need--they make so
much more than they can eat--they are so incessantly boring and buzzing
at their one idea till Death comes upon them--that don't you think they
overdo it?"
Some time since I cut from the pages of the _St. James' Gazette_ the
following "Cynical Song of the City," which pleasantly sets forth the
present craze for work, and again proves, like Dickens' bee, that we
rather overdo it:--
"Through the slush and the rain and the fog,
When a greatcoat is worth a king's ransom,
To the City we jolt and we jog
On foot, in a 'bus, or a hansom;
To labour a few years, and then have done,
A capital prospect at twenty-one!
There's a wife and three children to keep,
With chances of more in the offing;
We've a house at Earl's Court on the cheap,
And sometimes we get a day's golfing.
Well! sooner or later we'll have better fun;
The heart is still hopeful at thirty-one.
The boy's gone to college to-day,
The girls must have ladylike dresses;
Thank goodness we're able to pay--
The business has had its successes;
We must grind at the mill for the sake of our son.
Besides, we're still youngish at forty-one.
It has come! We've a house in the shires,
We're one of the land-owning gentry,
The children have all their desires,
But _we_ must do more double-entry;
We must keep things together, no time left for fun,
Ah! had we been twenty--not fifty--one!
A Baronet! J.P.! D.L.!
But it means harder work, little pleasure;
We must stick to the City as well,
Though we're tired and longing for leisure.
We shall soon become toothless, dyspeptic, and done,
As rich as the Bank, though we can't chew a bun,
And the gold-grubber's grave is the goal that we've won
At seventy--eighty--or ninety-one."
* * * * *
Guests at Foxwold are given the opportunity, when black Monday arrives,
of catching a most unearthly and uneasily early train, which involves
their rising with anything but a lark, swallowing a hurried breakfast,
a mounting into fiery untamed one-horse shays soon after eight, and
then being puffed away through South-Eastern tunnels to the busy hum of
those unduly busy men of whom we speak.
To catch this early train, which means that you "leave the warm
precincts of your cheerful bed, nor cast one longing lingering look
behind," some of our friends most justly object, preferring the early
calm, the well-considered uprisal, the dawdled breakfast, and the
ladies' train at the maturer hour of 10.30. Our dear friend, Mr.
Anstey Guthrie, having firmly and most wisely declined the early
train and any consequent worm, one very chilly morn, as the early
risers were starting for the station, appeared at his chamber window
awfully arrayed in white, and muttering with the fervour of another
John Bradford, "There goes Anstey Guthrie--but for the grace of God,"
plunged back into his rapidly cooling couch, "and left the world to
darkness and to us."
Chat No. 6.
"_It's idle to repine, I know;
I'll tell you what I'll do instead,
I'll drink my arrowroot, and go
To bed._"--C. S. C.
My good and kind old friend Robert Baxter, who now rests from his
labours, was, during his long active life in Westminster (dispensing
law to the rich and sharing its profits with the poor), one of the most
charitable and hospitable of men.
Occasionally, however, even his goodness was taxed with such severity,
as to somewhat try his patience.
The once well-known Mrs. X---- of A----, a philanthropic but foolish
old woman, arrived late one evening, uninvited, at his house in Queen's
Square, suffering from the first symptoms of rheumatic fever. Calmly
establishing herself in the best guest-chamber, and surrounded by the
necessary maid, nurse, and doctor, she turned her kind host's dwelling
into a private hospital for many weeks. When at last she reached the
stage of convalescence, and was allowed to take daily outings and
airings, Mr. Baxter's capital old butler, Sage, had the privilege of
carrying the fair but weighty invalid downstairs to the carriage, and
upstairs to her rooms once, and often twice, a day. No small effort
for any man's strength, however athletic he might be, and Sage, be it
conceded, was a moderate giant.
The weeks dragged themselves away, and at last the welcome date for
a final flitting to her own home arrived. Sage felt that he had well
earned an extraordinary douceur for all his labours, and was not
therefore surprised when the good lady on leaving slipped into his
willing hand a suggestive looking folded-up blue slip of paper instead
of the more limited gold. Retiring to his pantry to satisfy his very
natural curiosity as to the amount of the vail so fully deserved, his
feelings may be imagined, but not described, when he found that instead
of the expected cheque, it was what, in evangelical circles, is called
a leaflet, bearing on its face the following appropriate and cheerful
text: "Thou fool! this night thy soul shall be required of thee!"
Whilst upon the subject of misapplied texts, another instance, touched
with a pleasant humour, occurs to me. Many years ago I visited for
the first time an old friend and his wife in their pleasant country
house. Upon being shown into what was evidently one of the best
guest-chambers, I was intensely delighted to find over the mantelpiece
the following framed text, in large illuminated letters: "Occupy till I
come!" Unprepared to make so long a stay, I left on the Monday morning
following, and have no doubt the generous invitation still remains to
welcome the coming guest.
Another story of a like nature was told us by Mr. Anstey Guthrie, and
is therefore worth repeating. He once saw a long procession of happy
school-children going to some feast, headed by a band of music and a
standard-bearer. The latter was staggering beneath an immense banner,
on which was painted the Lion of Saint Mark's, rampant, with mouth,
teeth, and claws ready and rapacious; underneath was the singularly
appropriate and happy legend, "Suffer little children to come unto Me."
Another capital story from the same source, which time cannot wither,
nor custom stale, is, that at some small English seaside resort a
spirited and generous townsman has presented a number of free seats for
the parade, each one adorned with an iron label stating that "Mr. Jones
of this town presented these free seats for the public's use, the sea
is his, and he made it."
[Illustration]
Chat No. 7
"_Where are my friends? I am alone;
No playmate shares my beaker:
Some lie beneath the churchyard stone,
And some--before the Speaker:
And some compose a tragedy,
And some compose a rondo;
And some draw sword for Liberty,
And some draw pleas for John Doe._"
--W. M. Praed.
"_All analysis comes late._"--Aurora Leigh.
The difficulty which has existed since Lord Tennyson's dramatic death,
of choosing a successor to the Laureateship, has partly arisen from
the presence of so many minor poets, and the absence, with one
remarkable exception, of any monarch of song.
The exception is, of course, Mr. Swinburne, who stands alone as
the greatest living master of English verse. The objections to his
appointment may, in some eyes, have importance, but time has sobered
his more erratic flights, leaving a large residuum of fine work, both
in poetry and prose, which would make him a worthy successor to any of
those gone before.
Of the smaller fry, it is difficult to prophesy which will hereafter
come to the front, and what of their work may live.
As Oliver Wendell Holmes so pathetically says:--
"Deal gently with us, ye who read!
Our largest hope is unfulfilled;
The promise still outruns the deed;
The tower, but not the spire we build.
Our whitest pearl we never find;
Our ripest fruit we never reach;
The flowering moments of the mind,
Lose half their petals in our speech."
The late Lord Lytton (Owen Meredith) was very unequal in all he
produced. Perhaps the following ballad from his volume of "Selected
Poems," published in 1894 by Longmans, is one of the best and most
characteristic he has written:--
THE WOOD DEVIL.
1.
"In the wood, where I wander'd astray,
Came the Devil a-talking to me,
O mother! mother! But why did ye tell me, and why did they say,
That the Devil's a horrible blackamoor? He
Black-faced and horrible? No, mother, no!
And how should a poor girl be likely to know
That the Devil's so gallant and gay, mother?
So gentle and gallant and gay,
With his curly head, and his comely face,
And his cap and feather, and saucy grace,
Mother! mother!
II.
And 'Pretty one, whither away?
And shall I come with you?' said he.
O mother! mother!
And so winsome he was, not a word could I say,
And he kiss'd me, and sweet were his kisses to me,
And he kiss'd me, and kiss'd till I kiss'd him again,
And O, not till he left me I knew to my pain
'Twas the Devil that led me astray, mother!
The Devil so gallant and gay,
With his curly head, and his comely face,
And his cap and feather, and saucy grace,
Mother! mother!"