FROM LIFE

FROM

LIFE

BY

WYBERT REEVE
(COMEDIAN)

"So we'll live,
And pray, and sing, and tell old tales, and laugh
At gilded butterflies ; and hear poor rogues
Talk of court-news, and we'll talk with them too.
Who loses, and who wins ; who's in, who's out?
And take upon us the mystery of things,
As if we were God's spies."
SHAKESPEAR

LONDON

F. V. WHITE & CO.
31 SOUTHAMPTON STREET, STRAND, W.C.
1892

PREFACE.
SOME

of the Recollections, and Jottings from Life, in this

volume, were originally written for and published in The
Australasian, a weekly newspaper of Melbourne, under the
heading " Occasional Papers "—and it is by the courtesy
of the Proprietors I am enabled to republish them in a
collected form.
It is done at the request of Eeaders, who seem to think
these random sketches of sufficient importance to form an
interesting volume, and to demand an even wider circulation than that leading weekly paper of Australia, and
other Journals, afford.
As an actor, writer, manager, and traveller over the
greater part of the civilized world, my opportunities of
seeing life in all its phases have been many, my association
with men and women of mark, somewhat varied.
Some of these experiences are embodied in this volume.
Whether the opinion of perhaps too partial critics will

vi

PREFACE.

be endorsed by the still larger public remains to be proved.
At any rate, I hope they will be received in the Shakespearian spirit—
" Never anything can be amiss
When simpleness and duty tender it."
WYBERT

Adelaide, South Australia,
March 1891.

REEVE.

CONTENTS.
PAGE

"COME LIKE SHADOWS, SO D E P A R T "

1

SIDELIGHTS FROM THE STAGE

15

RECOLLECTIONS OF CHARLES MATHEWS

64

SIDELIGHTS FROM THE PULPIT

...

...

83

PERSONAL RECOLLECTIONS OF WILKIE COLLINS

...

...

105

OUR DOG COMPANIONS

120

IN SEARCH OF LODGINGS

...

134

GHOSTS

159

MADNESS

172

OLD INNS OF ENGLAND

...

...

...

...

182

...

SPORT EIGHTY YEARS AGO

...

190

SKETCHES FROM TRAVEL.
A GLANCE AT GALATZ AND THE BOSPHORUS

...

...

ON THE ROAD IN TEXAS TO MEMPHIS

199
210

DEATH IN PARIS, AND LIFE AT ST. CLOUD

218

A NIGHT ON THE DRACHENFELS, AND UP THE NIEDERWALD

229

ROUND ABOUT GADSHILL

238

A GOSSIP BY STARLIGHT OVER THE BLACK SPUR

...

244

FROM LIFE.
"COME LIKE SHADOWS, SO DEPART."
I AM not, like the witches in Macbeth, summoning up
a long line of Banquo's issue, to travel down the generations of futurity—a kingly host, to startle an ambitious
Macbeth—but here, with pen in hand, I call up realities
in the flesh I have once seen, strange, and in some cases
famous people, that are now as veritable shadows, departing when I shall put down the pen, to return only when
the present seeks in the past, as now, some dream-like
memories of boyhood.
The first is a short, compact, bullet-headed little man,
with swarthy complexion, handsome features of the
Napoleon order, clear piercing eyes, and closely-compressed
lips; he wears a seedy kind of military coat, no shirtcollar, but a black stock, and French trousers.
I can remember how I watched his coming and going to
our house, and with what pleasure I received a shake of
the hand or a pat on the head, with a friendly salutation
in very broken English. I looked at him with interest
and awe, for he had been a distinguished general under
B

2

FROM LIFE.

the first and great Napoleon, had commanded and fought
at his side, and had been exiled from France when the
Bourbons returned to the throne. The member of an old
legitimate and princely family, he had elected to follow
the fortunes of the Corsican soldier, and shared in all the
glories of the Empire.
Arriving in London with the remnant of a fortune, and
dreaming of another of untold wealth by improvements
and inventions of a scientific and engineering character—
his wras one of the first steam-carriages to travel on
ordinary roads—he spent several years in perfecting it,
had a large engine built, wasted not only his own money
but every one's who trusted him. Trials were made, something was always wanting, mechanism or money; it broke
hopelessly down and ended in disaster.
Another contrivance of his, I can remember his describing wTith excited gestures as having power to "sweep
away a whole infantry of line, like a bolt of the thunder,
or a d—d flash of the lightning " (this Napoleonic general
used strong language sometimes). From what I remember, it must have been a fearful instrument of destruction. The military authorities of that time declared
it too barbarous for civilized nations, and refused to
entertain the idea. His rage was great when it was
rejected by the English authorities, and he swore he would
sell it to another country "and blow the English like a
cockshell into their own seas," but he never had the
chance. The venture only helped to beggar him.
He came at last to borrow a few sovereigns—sometimes
asked for a meal—and a few shillings were often very
acceptable. He never expressed gratitude; magnificent
in poverty as in success, he accepted charity with the air
of a man who conferred on the donor a favour. What he

"COME LIKE SHADOWS, SO DEPAET."

3

might have said had any one dared to ask him for a return
of the money he borrowed I have not the means of
knowing, and the idea of doing so never entered any one's
head. (By the way, there are a good many people met
with in life who have the same indistinct notion of meurn
and tuum.) On one occasion my grandfather, to whose
house he came, interested himself with a rich city magnate,
an ex-lord mayor—a tea-merchant—who gave £10. "Ah,"
said the general, glaring on it, " h e gave me a paltry £10.
I vill keep it, but I do spit on the tea man's liberality,
and, by God, I vill return it, with interest." The threat
was never fulfilled.
He was blessed, or cursed, with a
wonderfully sanguine nature, and built castles to revolutionize the world; but as he got poorer, and friends and
victims more shy, all his castles fell, his means of building them ceased, and, after considerable forbearance, our
house, like other houses, was closed against him. For two
years we heard no more.
He had two daughters—fine, accomplished, aristocratic
young women; in their earlier years they had been
intimate with the Court of the Empire, and shared in the
pleasures of Napoleon's brilliant career. Of their lives in
London no one knew. People only, guessed what they
suffered in their father's poverty. Too poor to mix in
society, they were too proud to associate with humble
friends, and so endured in loneliness. At length some
light was thrown upon their silence. A messenger arrived
one day with the following memorandum scrawled on a
dirty old envelope, with a coronet on it (I remember
hearing at the time it must have enclosed a letter from the
general's brother-in-law, an Italian noble). The words on
the envelope were—" Come to me—oh, mon Dieu—my
God of heaven!—we are starving—we are dying!" An

4

FROM LIFE.

uncle of mine drove to the address, near Turnham-green.
He found the general at a wretched cottage, in a miserable
room, hardly any furniture, on a dirty old straw mattress ;
in a corner on the floor was one of the old man's daughters
dying. An old blanket and a ragged horse-rug were
thrown over her emaciated body; her wan face lay on a
dirty pillow, and her death-dimmed eyes seemed to wander
in strange incertitude about the room. An old petticoat
was hung across the window to keep the sunshine out.
The broken old man sat at a table smoking from a once
valuable pipe. The other daughter was working at the
same table at cheap slop work; a bundle lay at her side.
Like her sister, she had once had a pretty face, but now
looked ill and starved. They had lived for months on the
wretched earnings of the women until the more delicate
one broke down. What they had not pawned or sold, the
owner of the house had taken for rent, and in the extremity of his dying daughter and starvation he had once
more appealed to my relations for help. It was given; on
the death of the poor woman she was respectably buried,
and a subscription enabled the old man to return to Italy,
tolerably well fitted out for the journey. The noble family
to which he belonged received him, but never acknowledged the obligations he left behind; he had vowed he
would repay every sou, a promise he soon forgot. How
long he lived to build fresh castles I don't know. Perhaps
he had enough to do to denounce a world which had failed
to acknowledge his genius.
There is another shadow passing, a strange figure, a fine,
tall, handsome old fellow, with long hair and flowing beard,
bold and well-cut features, the very ideal of an apostle, and
such he had often been (on canvas). He was a celebrated
model, and got his living by sitting to first-class artists for

"COME LIKE SHADOWS, SO DEPART."

5

religious and historical subjects. He had figured as Moses,
Abraham, Pharaoh, Joshua, Saul, Isaiah—even for the
Great Jehovah. His face now looks from the canvas for
Peter, Paul, Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John. He lives
on canvas as King Lear, Henry IV., the Ghost of Hamlet's
father. And it did duty as a Doge of Venice, or a Roman
Father,
The faces of few men in the world ever played so many
parts. To meet him in the street, you would reverence
the face, there was something noble, patriarchal, reverential; but it belied him, he was a sorry old dog—a
loafing old impostor. His name was Soane, a grandson, if
I remember rightly—at any rate, a descendant—of the
celebrated antiquarian and physician, Sir Hans Soane, who
figured once upon a time as President of the College of
Physicians, and owner of a wonderful museum and library
he left to the nation, or that was purchased by the nation,
I forget which. The Soane I speak of was a happy-golucky old fellow, who lived the day and had no care for the
morrow. He had spent a fortune, and was ready to spend
another. Attracting friends by his appearance, and mild
and gentlemanly bearing, he wearied them with his impecuniosity; he borrowed from pounds to half-crowns, and at
times shillings were acceptable—always to be repaid on
the morrow, but that morrow never came. If you declined
to lend him money he did not object to a meal, and took
away with him the utmost his stomach would allow. He
was one of the many men born to prey on their fellows,
with no sense of shame or manly independence; goodtempered, of course—these people usually are—and with
a wonderful amount of cool assurance. It is astonishing
how such men find victims, but they do, when shy, honest,
hard-working, modest men starve.

6

FROM LIFE.

He came to my grandfather's house for assistance, and
as a model, for the old gentleman had at sixty years of age
discovered he was an artist (an amateur of course), and
having nothing else to do, amused himself until his death
at eighty. He was engaged on a religious picture when
Soane first called. He was the very man for the head of
John, and a very expensive John the Baptist he turned
out to be. He died in a wretched garret in the neighbourhood of Leicester-square—that paradise of models, brokendown foreigners, conspirators, and rogues of all sorts.
There is a tall, rather gentlemanly fellow now appears, a
friend of one of the family, Captain Harvey Tuckett, an
officer in the Earl of Cardigan's regiment, and the hero of
the famous black bottle incident. The earl and the captain
quarrelled over a common black wine-bottle introduced on
the mess-table by the latter, and they fought a duel. It
caused a great deal of excitement at the time, and a bitter
feeling against the earl, and this introduces me to a
singular incident. I was taken to one of Jullien's famous
promenade concerts at Covent-garden Theatre. The first
part ended as usual with strong dramatic effect, the
storming of a monastery and nunnery. The theatre was
darkened, the battle was raging, the big drums did duty
for cannons, the bugles sounded retreat and advance,
choristers sang prayerful appeals for aid; the prayers, I
suppose, were successful, as the fight ceased, the lights
blazed up, and the chorus sang praises of deliverance and
thanksgiving. Just at this moment a battle royal commenced, which rings in my ears as I write—shouting,
hooting, cat-galls, the most infernal din. Oranges, biscuits,
even bottles, all sorts of things, were hurled over our heads
at a fine, soldierly-looking man sitting in the front row of
the circle. Two ladies were with him. He stood up and

"COME LIKE SHADOWS, SO DEPART."

7

faced the raging multitude, and the women, trembling,
tried to shelter themselves behind him. No wonder he
could afterwards dare a Balaclava charge. Jullien tried to
calm the storm, but it was too much for him. He screamed
and gesticulated first at the crowd, then to the object of
their wrath to leave the theatre. He tried to start the
music again, but half the orchestra and the singers had
made a hasty retreat. The pelting began again, and the
orchestra was empty, and Jullien, finding himself alone,
ran off as fast as his legs could carry him. The lights
were then turned down, and the police came in to clear
the building. I was a very little fellow, but the relation
who was with me contrived to shelter me from harm, and
mounted me on his shoulder to avoid the crush. The last
object I saw in the dim light was Lord Cardigan, with his
arms folded, looking on the crowd with supreme contempt.
Poor Jullien ! he was no shadow in those days. He had
a face, a style, once seen never to be forgotten—his portly
figure, his big head, long hair, marvellous shirt-front,
the diamond studs and frills, the large wristbands—the
intense importance of his movements—he forced people
into prominence, who were hardly ever heard of afterwards
—the fireworks of his music—the charlatanism of his
puffery and advertising! He was a prominent object of
London life then,%ut it did not last; his shadow grew less
as fortune waned, and the fashion of his music was played
out. He died in comparative poverty.
Like the searcher after the philosopher's stone, another
shadow follows, a tall, thin, bent, elderly man in search
of perpetual motion—a retired barrister of independent
fortune, who dreamt he had found the secret, and made an
uncle of mine believe it too. Hours amounting to days,
days to weeks, weeks to months, the two worked together.

8

FROM LIFE.

They had wooden troughs of all sizes, from candle-boxes
to coffins—filled and re-filled with water—the theory was
the exact balancing power of the water enclosed in the
troughs working on a centre pivot or support. So they
persevered, urged on to hope every day by some new idea.
My uncle was the first to give in, but the old man theorized
and experimentalized until his death, and in imparting
the theory of his secret the friends around his deathbed
believed he was bestowing a grand discovery on future
generations.
I was reading the other day of Thomas Dibdin (a
correspondent to a London paper calling attention to the
neglect of the Dibdin graves). Thomas was the son of
the great sea-song writer, the godson of Garrick, and the
author of some eight hundred songs, dramas, and pantomimes—pantomimes in which Grimaldi clowned, notably in
the very famous one of Mother Goose. I knew him when
his life comedy was over, decrepid and bent, a shadow
of his former self. He and his young wife and small
children lived on the second floor of a house in the St.
Pancras New-road. At seventy years of age he had a wife
and two children to support. I had heard of his connection
with the stage, and although I had never been inside a
theatre, I was drawn to him. Old and broken as he was,
he was an object of interest and adoration. I even hoped
he might write a piece for my new wooden toy theatre
and the paste-board characters I had expended nearly a
box of colours over. After the gaudy yellow, blue, and
greens I had painted my actors and actresses with, I must
say the poor old man's appearance was at first a disappointment. I could not invest him with any fairy-like,
enchanting, or even seductive robber-like qualities I had
imagined all must have on whom the footlights had in

"COME LIKE SHADOWS, SO DEPABT.'*

9

any way shone. The curtain was fast falling, he had outlived his time; there was no Grimaldi to write for, no
patent theatre with distinct privileges.
He had been stock author for Covent-garden and
Drury-lane; one of his pieces, The English Fleet, will
always be remembered for the celebrated trio " All's Well."
It was a long downward step to the Queen's in Tottenhamstreet (as it then was, long before the Bancroft management), to the Marylebone Theatre and the Yorkshire
Stingo, a theatre connected with a large public-house in
the New-road. At such places Thomas Dibdin now
occasionally got his pieces played, and by some very
deceitful scheme I got him to take me to the theatre.
What I told the old gentleman to induce him to take me,
I do not remember, but I got there at last; that was the
main point. How I enjoyed it! What an enchanted
land it was! Have I ever felt the same ? I think not.
What his piece was about I have not the slightest recollection. I only know he was happy in seeing my delight,
and no doubt accepted it as a compliment to his authorship.
It was my first introduction to a life which years afterwards
I was to make my own, and it is a consolation to feel I
have never regretted it. Poor old Dibdin! Foolishly
married to a much younger wife, and with young children
to support—a gentleman in manners, and a very capable
author, he died a few years afterwards in poverty, and his
son was given a civil appointment by the Government in
•recognition of the literary distinction of his grandfather
and father.
Only the other day I was looking over George Cruikshank's Omnibus, and there I found the following:—
" This pleasantry called to mind the departed author of
a thousand similar essays; of a thousand proofs of natural

10

FROM LIFE.

talent and untiring activity of mind. I speak of Thomas
Dibdin, the son of the great sea songster, the brother of
the already bygone Charles, and consequently the last of
the three. The remains of (Poor Tom' were interred on
the 21st September in the burial-ground of St. James's
Chapel, Pentonville, close by the grave of his old friend
Grirnaldi.,,
There is a shadow, now, of a very vain but clever artist,
Benjamin Robert Haydon, the historical painter—a strange,
reserved, sensitive genius, spending much of his time
and ability on colossal, unsaleable pictures, with life-size
figures. He became morbid on the subject of his wrongs,
in the public indifference. It is well known the patronage
afforded to the exhibition of the mannikin Tom Thumb in
the same building he exhibited his pictures, to whom the
public crowded by thousands, and fair dames struggled for
a kiss of the little monstrosity, was the final and crushing
blow to his sensitive nature. The two works (and his
last) shown on this occasion were The Banishment of
Aristides and Nero Watching the Burning of Borne.
One of the last entries in his diary is—" Tom Thumb had
12,000 people last week, B. R. Haydon 133^ (the half a
little girl)—exquisite taste of the English people/' One
morning news came to us he had killed himself in his
studio. The house was not five minutes' walk from ours.
He must have contemplated suicide some years before, for
in 1841 he wrote in his diary—" It may be laid down that
self-destruction is the physical mode of relieving a diseased
brain, because the first impression of a brain diseased, or
diseased for a time, is the necessity of this horrid crime.
There is no doubt of it." He was a well-known and
celebrated man of his time, and had amongst his pupils
Sir Charles Eastlake, Sir Edwin Landseer, and George

"COME LIKE SHADOWS, SO DEPART."

11

Lance. A clever artist, grand in his ideas, but never the
great painter he believed himself to be, his vanity made
him think that all progress in his art proceeded from himself, and he even identified its future fate with bis own
efforts. Although an unsociable man, there was a great
deal of regret and sorrow at his fearful death. As a child
I was greatly interested in it, and his servants being on
friendly terms with ours, I got them to obtain me admission to his studio two days after the occurrence. Models
and old drawings, studies for large pictures were carelessly
thrown about the room in which he killed himself, and at
one end there was a very large picture he had been at
work on ; the subject was King Alfred visiting a shepherd's
hut; the bottom of one side of the picture was bespattered
with blood; on a small table near was a bloody razor with
which he had cut his throat, and a small pistol. The one
not being effectual he had used the other, and so hurried
himself into eternity, ending the sufferings of a disappointed heart and genius.
In two dark rooms over a shop in Bond-street I saw a
man of about thirty-five—handsome, rich, and titled, once
a leader of fashion—who had voluntarily shut himself up
from the world. His rooms were a perfect chaos of books,
dust, and disorder. Books were piled up on the floor so
that you could hardly move about; they were on his bed,
on every table and chair. The dust and dirt had been
allowed to accumulate for several years, the light was
almost shut out; no woman had been allowed to enter his
apartments since he had been there, had he had not spoken
to one for years; he occasionally walked a short round of
the streets in the middle of the night for exercise; a manservant attended on him, and was not allowed to disturb a
book or anything in the room, or use a duster; he received

12

FROM LIFE.

no strangers and very few acquaintances, and these only at
long intervals and for a short time; his hair and beard
had been allowed to grow, so that he looked like a wild
man of the woods. I called upon him one day with an
uncle who had known him for some years, and, to my
childish horror, he took a sort of liking to me. I endured it
because I appreciated the money he gave me, so much so
that after the fear of the first interview I was only too
ready to go again, but the chances were very seldom. I
remember hearing it said he was a very clever man, and
an accomplished scholar. It was the old story—a love
affair. The lady had jilted him, and it made him the
strange misanthrope he was. He continued to live years
after I last saw him, gradually growing more morose,
shutting out at last all daylight, sleeping through the day,
and spending his nights in reading. What a fool for his
pains! No woman is worth such a wasted life, for I remember hearing that the lady who had so wrecked his life
was a shining light in the great world outside—a pleasureloving, fashionable, married woman.
A goodly array of shadows pass before me. Selecting a
few more, there is a thick-set, full-faced, intellectuallooking man, who speaks with a Scotch accent, with a very
decided tone about it—Joseph Hume, one of the most
prominent members of Parliament of that time, a political
economist, and, I think, one of the executors to the late
Duke of Kent, the Queen's father. He was the son of a
poor widow who kept a shop in Montrose, and shipped as
a cabin-boy; afterwards studied surgery; went out to
India; returned a young man with a fortune of £30,000;
travelled in Spain, Turkey, Greece, and Egypt; then was
elected a member of Parliament, and for many years was
the leading economical spirit of the House, struggling for

"COME LIKE SHADOWS, SO DEPART."

13

military, naval, and fiscal reforms, and for the abolition of
flogging in the army and navy, imprisonment for debt,
and other measures that have since became laws of the
land. Arm-in-arm with Mr. Hume is a gentlemanly man
of middle age, with a lively manner, a member of the then
Ministry, Sir James Graham. Sir John Cam Hobhouse,
Byron's friend and school-fellow, presently enters; and afterwards a short, good-looking, elderly, military man, with a
cheery manner, who greets an uncle of mine as an old
friend: they had served together in India—Sir Charles
Malcolm, ex-Govern or of Bombay. Ah ! now, there is an
unmistakable face and figure—very tall and slim, Jewish
features, dark, clever eyes, and glossy curls, just turning to
iron-gray—a very coxcomb in dress, flowered velvet waistcoat and a great display of watch-chain—high-cut velvet
collar, short-waisted coat, with a beautiful little bouquet in
it, and close-fitting gray trousers with a stripe down the
sides. It is Benjamin D'Israeli—the Earl of Beaconsfield
of the future—then the fashionable novelist and the
rising statesman—laughed a t ' by some, but feared by
all for the keenness of his wit and the brilliancy of his
satire.
" What, will the line stretch out to the crack of doom ?"
the reader may ask. Not so; there is only one more
shadow I will recall, that of a fine and beautiful woman,
refined and intellectual, a remarkably attractive face, and
a manner equally so—the Hon. Mrs. Norton, a poetess and
novelist, a woman of fashion, and around whose fair fame
a scandal arose, connecting her with a famous noble politician of those days, one of the chief advisers of the Queen
and her Royal Consort. It caused a great stir in the
world of London, but is now, I suppose, forgotten, except
by the few* She spoke and wrote bitter words sometimes.

14

FKOM LIFE.

Was it the experience of her own life prompted her ? I
quote from her novel, Stuart of Dunleath:—
" But Eleanor heard no more. Song, and speech, and
the sound of weeping, and the rush of earth's rivers and
waterfalls, were over for her. She was gone from the
changeful imperfect affection of fallible human friends to
that merciful Creator who allots such various destinies to
His creatures on earth, but gives them one sentence for
the hereafter—' Those who do well to the resurrection of life,
and those who do evil to the resurrection of damnation/ "
And again—
" The watchword of her soul was the one breathless word
which summed the wishes of Mignon in Goethe's Wilhelm
Meister, when the feverish canker-worm of love ate into
her life—Dahin ! Dahin ! (Thither, thither). She cared
not when—or how—or what lay beyond; with him—with
him—"
Mrs. Norton, like others, shadows of my boyhood, have
long since vanished from this mortal life to find the secret
of what " lay beyond." What have they found except—
" Here larks no treason, here no envy swells,
Here grow no damned grudges ; here are no storms,
No noise, but silence and eternal sleep " ?

Who can say ?

SIDELIGHTS FROM THE STAGE.
MACREADY, Phelps, Charles Kean, Gustavus Brooke
were Shakespearian actors of more or less merit, but the last
of the great Shakespearian geniuses the English stage can
boast of, I think, was Edmund Kean. The first-named
actors were undoubted men of talent, more particularly
the first-named—arriving at their effects by education,
personal qualifications, and study. Edmund Kean had no
advantages of education, few personal qualifications, but
in the place of study and cultivation he had the inspiration of genius. As an old playgoer lately writes in his
"Recollections of Old Drury," in the Graphic:—"I can
only remember one striking figure, whose every look,
word, and gesture exclusively absorbed my attention.
Since then I have witnessed and carefully studied the
performance of almost every leading tragic artist of my
time, English and foreign. Except Rachel, not one has
in any way approached the idol of my youthful days, or
appeared to me to have passed the boundary-line which
separates talent, however eminent of its kind, from that
earnest and most precious of all inborn gifts—genius."
Mrs. Bancroft tells a story of her father, who played
Tubal to Kean's Shylock, and who, in the great scene, was
so frightened by the marvellous and natural intensity of

16

FROM LIFE.

Kean's passion that he could not speak. An old actor
told me a similar story. He played Marall to Kean's Sir
Charles Overreach. In the morning Kean said, "You
will just go down on your knees there, at the end of the
speech, and I talk to you." He did talk, and had it all
.to himself for a time, for Kean's piercing eyes and
intensity affected the actor so that he could not speak, or
get up again, until Kean, seeing what was the matter,
turned angrily away. The generations of playgoers since
his time have seen no acting like this. As Lord Byron
said—"By Jove, he has a soul—life, nature, truth!"
All readers of the annals of the stage are aware of the
Bohemianism of his life. He had little regard for the
social laws of respectability, by which the Kembles,
Macready, Phelps, and others have been bound. For
this much is to be said of the wretched childhood and
fearful poverty of his early life. It was a long struggle
for an existence of hard work. I met an old lady in
Swansea who saw him play in one night there Richard
the Third and Harlequin in the pantomime afterwards.
During his season of 1814 at Drury-lane he played
68 nights, and the amount taken at the doors was
£32,642 12s. 6d., an average of about £509 9s. per night
(when he commenced there the average had previously
been about £212). The theatre must have cleared in the
68 nights about £20,000. His books showed an income
of about £10,000 a year for 18 years; the mystery is
what he did with so large a sum ? He was not a gambler;
yet just before his death he was near being arrested for
£100. I quote these amounts for the purpose of showing
a contrast. Some years ago I had the opportunity of
looking over the books of a well-known provincial manager
in England, a very eccentric man called Manly, who died

17

SIDELIGHTS FROM THE STAGE.

years before. He had at one time Derby, Halifax,
Chesterfield, and occasionally other theatres. They were
most interesting and amusing books; in them I came
across the following:—
"Halifax, March 5, 1832.
" Mr. Edmund Kean.
" 1st night ' Merchant of Venice,' receipts £11 6s. 6d.; 2nd night,
no go—dismissed the house.
"Mr. K. broke down, and strangers conceived a poor opinion
of him."

When in South Shields, near Newcastle, a poor woman
called upon me one day, and said she had an original
letter of Kean's to her uncle; she would gladly sell it for
2s. 6d. The money and letter exchanged hands very
quickly, and here is a copy of it:—
"26th August.
"To Mr. Crook,
" DEAR NED,—I enclose you one hundred pounds to pay—
£ s. d.
Williams, at the Crown
20 1 7 1/2
Spencer, Harp
22 1 0
Staples ...
4 12 0
March
18
11
Mr. Chapman
7 15 0
Queen's Head
...
...
...
...
... 2 3 0
White Hart
4 0
Hudson ...
2 11 0
Newman
...
...
...
... 7 11 0
Hughes
8 0 0
Give William
1 0 0
Doorkeeper D. L.
2 0 0
Bynam ...
...
...
...
...
... 4 3 3
Brown Bear
... 13 8 6
West
2 2 0
98 1131/5
" Your very sincere friend,
"EDMUND KEAN."

c

FROM LIFE.

18

I t will be seen out of this £100 there is £57 18s.11/2d.
for scores he had run up at public-houses in the neighbourhood of Drury-lane.
In this same old Manly's books are receipts which
somewhat startle one, thinking over these so-called " good
old times." They would drive a manager mad, or make
him hang himself, in the present day:—
Derby, April 22, 1833. Second Week.
£
Monday—"Pedlar's Acre," " Of Age Tomorrow," and " Valentine and Orson" ...
Wednesday—"The Poacher" and "The Miller
and His Men"
Friday, 26th—" Eugene Aram " and " Robin "
Entire receipts of week

s. d.

5 0 0
3 3 0
4 7 0
12 10 0

" Well done, canting Derby !" Manly concludes the entry
with. No wonder. Consider, too, how much they got for
their money—instead of the one piece of the present day.
Here is another, with the celebrated James Wallack as
the star:—
September 23, 1833. Chesterfield.
James Wallack.
£ s. d.
Monday—" Pizarro" and " My Aunt"
... 15 0 0
Wednesday—«Hamlet" and "Wolf and Lamb " 10 0 0
Thursday—"Much Ado About Nothing" and
"Spoilt Child"
5 12 6
Friday,27th—Mr. Wallack's Benefit, "Brutus"
and "My Aunt"
8 13 0
Receipts of week

39 5 6

I wonder how much Mr. Wallack got out of it, and if he
ever visited the town with the celebrated " crooked church
steeple " again ?

SIDELIGHTS FEOM THE STAGE.

19

To those who take an interest in stage matters, and
fortunately they include the great majority of sensible
people, the following little correspondence between the
famous Charles Young, the rival of Kemble, and one of
the most fashionable of London actors, and William
Murray, the lessee of the Theatre Royal, Edinburgh, may
not be without interest:—
"BUSINESS.
" DEAR SIR,—Will you have me to take my leave of Edinburgh at
your commencement this season. The terms that would suit me, if
they do you, would be such as John Kemble had, as he told me, viz.,
one-third of receipts, a clear night you, and a clear night me. Your
answer will oblige, dear sir, your faithful servant,
" C. M. YOUNG.

" T o the Manager Patentee of Edinburgh Theatre, William
Murray, Esq."
"FRIENDSHIP.
" M Y DEAR WILLIAM MURRAY,—You are not in a hurry to acquaint

me with an event concerning which I feel quite as much interest as
any third person could be supposed to do—for this you are a
bl—k—d, and don't deserve the happiness I truly wish you,
" Your very sincere friend and well-wisher,
" C M . YOUNG."

I t is quite evident that Mrs. Murray has had a baby,
as he writes to her a little later on :—
"DEAR MRS. MURRAY,—Accept the sincere congratulations and

wishes for your continued happiness from your very sincere friend,
"C.M.YOUNG.

" I came from Paris last week, when I witnessed the whole from
beginning to end of the Eevolution. I am not yet awake from what
seems a dream. I tell you this to account for my tardiness in
sending you my congratulations. I had not heard of the Eevolution
in Great Britain till I came back."
He must allude to the Chartist Riots, I imagine.

20

FROM L I F E .

As I am writing of Charles Young and James Wallack,
I am reminded that in a book at my side, in which I
have collected many interesting documents, literary and
theatrical, I have two old play-bills connected with these
names. Here is the first:—
N E W T H E A T R E ROYAL, COVENT-GARDEN.
This present Friday, October 19, 1810, will be acted
T H E IRON CHEST.
Sir Edward Mortimer—Mr. C. Young-.
Fitzharding—Mr. Chapman. Wilford—Mr. C. Kemble.
Adam Winterton—Mr. Fawcett.
Rawbold—Mr. Murray.
Samson—Mr. Liston. Orson—Mr. Emery. Armstrong—Mr. Taylor.
Robbers—Messrs. King, Treby, Jefferies, Lambert.
Helen, by Mrs. H . Johnston.
Blanche—by Mrs. Gibbs. Dame Rawbold, by Mrs. Price.
Barbara, by Mrs. Bolton. Judith, by Mrs. C. Kemble.
To which will be added, for the fourth time, a new
Dramatic Romance in two acts, called
T H E BRIDAL RING.
With new scenery, dresses, and decorations.
Overture and musick by Mr. Condell.
Characters by
Mr. Young, Mr. Fawcett, Mr. Jefferies, Mr. Simmons, Mr. Cresswell,
Mr. Chapman, Mr. Menage, Mr. Louis, Mr. Atkins, Mrs. C. Kemble,
Mrs. H. Johnston.
The Dances by
Mrs. Pincott, Mr. P. Taylor.
To-morrow Shakspeare's Tragedy of
KING HENRY T H E E I G H T H .
King Henry—Mr. Egerton. Cardinal Wolsey—Mr. J. Kemble.
Queen Katherine, by Mrs. Siddons.
To which will be added T H E PADLOCK.
On Monday the Tragedy of T H E REVENGE.
Alonzo—Mr. C. Kemble. Zanga—Mr. Kemble.
Leonora, By Mrs. Hamerton.
(Being her first appearance in London.)

SIDELIGHTS FROM T H E STAGE.

21

Tuesday.—The Tragedy of T H E GAMESTER.
Beverley—Mr. Young. Stukely—Mr. Egerton.
Mrs. Beverley—Mrs. Siddons.
Wednesday.—The Comedy of T H E ROAD TO RUIN.
Thursday.—The Play of T H E MOUNTAINEERS.
Friday.—Comic Opera of T H E WOODMAN.
Saturday.—Shakspeare's Historical Play of
KING JOHN.
With " T h e Bridal R i n g " Every Evening.

This bill is about 9 in. by 7 in., on poor paper. Not
a name starred—that is, not one larger than the other.
Young, the Kembles, and Mrs. Siddons were content to
be announced to the public as others were, and what a
feast, what an intellectual banquet for the theatre-goer,
does this little ugly-looking bill contain! Here is the
other, twenty years after, in which Mr. Wallack takes a
benefit. The same gentleman who took a benefit in
Chesterfield, and had £8 13s. in the house, and played
to £39 5s. in the week. It is a bill to open one's eyes
at with wonder :—
T H E A T R E ROYAL, DRURY-LANE.
For the Benefit of
MR. WALLACK,
Stage-manager.
Monday next, May 24, 1830.
On which occasion
MADAME MALIBRAN
Will sing in English, French, and Italian.
His Majesty's Servants Will Act for the Second and Last
Time (this season) Colman's Play of
T H E IRON CHEST.
Edward Mortimer—Mr. C. Young.
Wilford—Mr. Wallack. Winterton—Mr. Farren,
Rawbold—Mr. H. Wallack. Armstrong—Mr. Bedford.
Samson Rawbold—Mr. Harley. Fitzhardinge—Mr. Young,
.Orson—Mr. Browne.

22

FROM L I F E .

Helen—Miss Phillips. Blanche—Madame Vestris.
Barbara—Miss Stephens. Judith—Mrs. Faucit.
At the End of the Play the National Anthem,
" G o d Save the King,"
Will be Sung by Miss Stephens, Madame Vestris,
and Madame Malibran,
Assisted by the Whole of the Company.
In the course of the evening the following Songs, Duets, (fee.:
Madame Malibran will sing
u
Coulier de se Revoir," accompanied by herself on
the Pianoforte. She will also sing
" T h e Light Guitar."
And the Duet " Giovinette," with Mr. H. Phillips.
"Meet Me by Moonlight Alone," and u C o m e where the
Aspens Quiver," by Miss Stephens.
A Favourite Song, by Mr. Phillips.
" W h y are you wandering here, I p r a y ? "
" N o , no, I'll not believe i t ; " " T o the Gay T o u r n a m e n t ; "
and " L o v e was Once a Little Boy."
By Madame Vestris.
Duet, " Sweet .Little Barbara."
Mr. Wallack and Miss Stephens.
"Love's Ritornella," by Mr. Wallack.
" T h e Hump-backed Traveller and Charming Landlady/'
by Mr. Harley.
<"Tis when to Sleep the World Retires," by Mr. Bedford.
After which (16th time), a New Comedietta, in Two Acts, called
PERFECTION.
Charles Paragon, Mr. Jones ; Sir Lawrence, Mr. Brown ;
Sam, Mr. Webster.
Kate O'Brien (with songs), Madame Vestris.
Susan, Mrs. Orger.
To conclude with (44th time), a New Drama,
in Two Acts, called
T H E BRIGAND.
Mr. Wallack as Massaroni.
Messrs. Farren, H, Wallack, James Vining, Webster, &c.,
in the cast,

SIDELIGHTS FROM THE STAGE.

23

What a bill! A long play, " God Save the King," fourteen ballads and duets, a comedietta in two acts, and a long
two-act drama. Verily our ancestors had enough for their
money—from five hours and a half to six hours, commencing, I suppose, at seven o'clock—then we have a right
to believe they went to the theatre to enjoy themselves,
and see and hear the players and singers, not to look at
each other and talk, as the custom is at the present day.
No wonder they can now only endure one piece in the
evening—a two and a half hours' entertainment. What
an evening's attraction this old bill announces—as the
playbills sometimes say, what " a galaxy of talent." How
far would one walk or travel to listen to the same nowa-days; but we can never hope to look upon another
playbill such as this small and unpretending one is.
Here, as in the former bill, not a name is larger than
its fellow, except Madame Malibran, who is an extra
attraction, and has a little distinction. The others are
simply stock members of the company. (The Miss
Stephens was afterwards Countess of Essex, a charming
woman, actress, and singer.) There is not a name
amongst them that would not now proclaim himself or
herself a star, and require its own hemisphere to shine in
—with large posters on every wall, a portrait in every
possible periodical, and a photograph in every shopwindow. It's a bill to ponder over, and sigh over, and
to repeat the words of Byron over—
" Out upon Time, who for ever will leave
But enough of the Past for the Future to grieve
O'er that which hath been, and o'er that which must be ;
What we have seen, our sons shall see,
Remnants of mirage, that have pass'd away,
fragments of stone, reared by creatures of clay."

24

FROM LIFE.

Pantomimes were somewhat different in the year 1830
to what they are now. I have a Drury-lane Theatre bill
of February of that year, announcing an entertainment
for holiday folks that it would be hard to beat—Richard
the Third, the first piece, with Edmund Kean as Richard,
Wallack as Richmond, after which the successful pantomime of Jack in the Box. Six opening scenes—
The Enchanted Grove and Goblin's Abode.
.Fairy Vision of the Hidden Island.
Ascent to the Burning Mount with Beacon Light.
The Crater by Moonlight.
Splendid City of the Mists in the Hidden Island.

These scenes are all by the great artist, Clarkson
Stanfield—the last is evidently the transformation scene.
Fancy his Goblin Abode! What was it like, I wonder?
What would it sell for if put up to auction now ? Besides
Stanfield there are Marinari, one of the great men of the
day, two other artists, and six assistants.
There are seven comic scenes, with the famous Grimaldi
as clown, and Barns as pantaloon. The pantomime
concludes with a
GKAND LOCAL DIORAMA BY STANFIELD.
Views of
Windsor Castle and Vicinity.
Virginia Waters, with Magnificent Display of the Falls ; terminating with
The Falls of Virginia, Water seen Through
The Fairy Temple of Luminaria.

The Temple of Luminaria is good. I wonder what
became of all these hundreds of yards of canvas, covered
by a hand and brush, the work of which a single yard
has since been valued at thousands.
James Sheridan Knowles, a clever, impetuous Irishman,
the author of the fine play of Virginius, and other splays

S I D E L I G H T S FEOM T H E STAGE.

25

very popular in their time, such as The Hunchback, The
Wife, and The Love Chase, fancied himself an actor, and
played the chief part in several of his pieces; but having
a strong Irish brogue, it was rather a drawback to the
noble Roman or the sententious Master Walter. He died
a Baptist minister of the most orthodox type, denouncing
during his ministry the " devil and all his works" in the
shape of theatres, and actors, and actresses, to the amusement of the profession he denounced. Here is a letter
in verse written by him to Mrs. Barnett, at one time
manageress of the Kyde, Oxford, and Guildford Theatres.
It is dated in the year 1839, and was evidently penned
after playing an engagement:—
" In answer to your poetic effusion,
I write to dispel a mistake, a delusion,
And thus, then, it is, and it is very fanny,
You think, my fair friend, that I owe you some money.
But let's state the case, and you'll presently see
If money be owing, it's owing to me.
On charges at Guildford, on night called a Ben,
Stand two shillings short of two pounds and ten.
In forwards, and backwards, in strange ups and downs,
I n warmish long journeys, one pound and three crowns.
I n cash add a pound, money lent unto thee,
' Twill make in odd shillings one hundred and three;
As a set off against it, in kicking and prancing,
You charge three pounds twelve for a monkey * taught dancing.
A balance remains, then, of one pound eleven,
To me, a poor devil's at sixes and seven.
To avoid, then, all lawyers, and bailiffs, and writs,
We'll shake hands and be friends, and both cry out quits."

Dear, kind-hearted, and very eccentric Mrs. Barnett, to
whom this was written! Few ladies in the profession as
a manageress in England were known so well or so much
* A boy who danced between the pieces.

26

FROM LIFE.

respected by the profession. She was an excellent comedy
actress, and a good woman. Two summers of my novitiate
were passed under her kindly rule at the theatre, Ryde,
Isle of Wight, which she opened during the fashionable
season, and very pleasant summers they were. The
theatre was small, and in an ordinary way very badly
attended, but bespeak nights were frequent, and sometimes brilliant audiences assembled in the little place.
Fashionable people then were content to sit patiently in
the dress-circle on forms covered with baize in place of
the well-stuffed, luxurious chairs which now adorn the
new theatre that has taken its place. People were in the
habit of strolling in late, and I remember on one occasion
playing the whole of the first two acts of The Stranger to
the boy who sold apples and oranges, sitting' in the middle
of the pit. On another occasion, on one of the off-nights,
some half-dozen people were in the pit, and had put their
umbrellas up to keep off the rain that was pouring in from
the roof—it was a very severe thunderstorm. When notacting, Mrs. Barnett was playing cards with friends who
were always dropping in to her little house attached to
the theatre. One of the company ran down to her in
great excitement at seeing the umbrellas up, and said
— "Mrs. Barnett, the rain's coming in dreadfully on the
heads of the audience."
" Well, my dear," replied Mrs. Barnett, not looking up
from her cards, " I am glad there is something coming in.
Trump; my dear, that's my trick," and on she went
playing.
The theatre was only open three or four nights a week,
and on the days of its being closed invariably Mrs. Barnett,
arranged a picnic for the company, and we walked out to
Quarr Abbey, Brading, or to some of the beautiful downs

SIDELIGHTS FROM THE STAGE.

27

or woods on the outskirts of Ryde. There was a curious
incident occurred on one of these excursions. We had
been playing rounders and other games, and had finished a
luxurious tea of the most delicious home-made bread-andbutter and fresh eggs and bacon. When darkness was
falling the tea-things were removed, and in the little inn
parlour we commenced telling murder and ghost stories.
One of the company had piled up the horrible over a
diabolical murder, everybody felt creepy, the ladies particularly nervous and excited, when the door opened quietly,
and the foot of a black-covered coffin appeared. Gradually
the coffin and the man carrying it came in sight. The
story-teller abruptly stopped just as he was describing the
dead man's ghastly face, and we were all somewhat
staggered. In came the coffin ; the man, without*speaking
a word, deposited it under our noses on the table, and
walked out again. There was a moment's pause, then a
general stampede out into the air, the ladies almost
fainting with fright. It turned out it was a mistake of
the man's who brought it in. I t was intended for a
woman who had died in a cottage close at hand; he had
mistaken his directions, thought it was for the inn, and
had delivered his burden in the way described.
Mrs. Barnett had a marvellous way of casting pieces.
Nothing came amiss to her; her ingenuity in arranging
the doubling and trebling of parts was a surprise it took a
new member of the company some time to get over. I
give an instance :—A star, Mr. Henry Betty, son of the
Young Roscius, came to play a week, and amongst other
pieces Macbeth was put up. I found myself cast for Ross,
Banquo, and the First Murderer, which necessitated my
murdering myself, and reporting to Macbeth I had done
so. I knew in all probability I should murder Shakspeare,

28

FROM LIFE.

without any trouble, but I could not see my way to the
other arrangement. It was, however, soon got over by
Mrs. Barnett, " My dear, nothing could be nicer." Macduff
and Malcolm mixed up Boss's lines in the first two acts,
and I was all right as Banquo up to the front scene, when
I appeared in a cloak, slouch hat, and beard as the Murderer, and undertook my own murder; then in the murder
scene I crossed as Banquo with Fleance, threw cloak and
hat on, bobbed round the wing, and entered as First
Murderer, followed myself off and committed the sanguinary act, entered at the banquet scene, reported I had
done the deed, off with cloak, some chalk on face, and a
huge red gash across my throat, and I was Banquo's ghost.
I afterwards came to life for the rest of the piece as Ross.
To say the least this was an ingenious concentration of
dramatic forces, but in those days, and in such theatres,
you were supposed to get experience, and there is no doubt
you did get it. I must relate one more of the many
incidents occurring with this kindly lady. She retired
from the stage with a small income, and took a very old
but pretty cottage at Ryde. One afternoon, shortly after
her taking possession, I was sitting with her and several
friends at tea, when all at once there was a crash overhead,
a shower of dust and lime, and a woman's leg in a black
stocking came through the ceiling over our heads. It was
the charwoman's, who had been set to wash a kind of attic
or lumber-room, and treading on a rotten place her considerable weight was too much for it, and down she came.
The astonishment of Mrs. Barnett's guests may be imagined, but the old lady, with her cup of tea in her hand,
looking up simply said—" God bless my soul, it's only
Mary's leg!"
During the time I was in Ryde chance took me to

SIDELIGHTS FROM THE STAGE.

29

Newport when an amateur performance was going on. I
forget the piece, but the hall was full, and the acting more
than usually bad. To some extent, it was, however, made
up for by the roar of laughter at the end of the piece.
The young lovers had surmounted all the usual difficulties
to prove the old saying, "The course of true love never
runs smooth," and the obstinate father having relented,
joined their hands and bestowed his blessing in a very
comical way. Added to his blessing was a gift of ten
thousand livres (the action of the play was in France).
The gentleman playing the part gave an original reading,
and improved on the text—" Bless you, my children! I
forgive you, and with my blessing, my children, I give you
ten thousand livers."
In speaking of amateurs, I am reminded of an old
gentleman I met at Whitehaven in Cumberland. At an
old-fashioned inn was a very comfortable parlour in which
I sometimes smoked my pipe. In this parlour some of the
respectable tradesmen of the town assembled in the evening, and sat with their long clays and jugs of beer, or hot
spirits-and-water, enjoying themselves after the fashion of
the time. There was one particularly comfortable, oldfashioned Windsor chair near the large open fireplace, and
here sat enthroned the presiding genius and gossip of the
parlour, a Mr. Thompson, a furniture-dealer and linendraper in the town. He was a very jolly old gentleman,
with very decided views about men and things in general,
politics in particular. His long churchwarden was sacred,
his particular tankard the same. One evening he told me,
to my great surprise, he had been an actor.
As Hamlet questions Polonius, naturally came the query
" What did you enact ?"
" Well, perhaps/' he replied, " you wouldn't think

30

FKOM LIFE.

it a part of much importance; but I did, I can tell
you."
"What was i t ? "
" Well, young sir—it was a cock."
I was considerably mystified by this reply. Seeing I
was so, he explained.
" You know a play called The Spectre Bridegroom ?"
I answered in the affirmative.
" Well, there is one particular part of it, after the man
sits watching for the Ghost, just as morning breaks, when
the cock crows."
" Yes, I remember that."
" Well, as I did the cock astonishing in my young days,
they asked me to help 'em behind the scenes."
" How did you get on ?"
" First-rate, young sir, only you see I was laughing at
the play, and forgot when it was to come, and I felt very
nervous, I can tell you."
" That was a pity."
" Wasn't it ? Presently I remembered what I was there
for. I hadn't noticed the actor on the stage making faces
at me some time before. When I did think of it, I began
to crow like mad. ' What the devil are you doing ?' says
one of the amateur actors called Tom Martin.
'It's
afternoon now, the play's nearly over. D
it, you
ought to have crowed half an hour ago!' I should
have done it first-rate, but for that. I never acted
again
"
" Well, there is no knowing what the stage has lost
"
" You're right, young sir!" and the old man chuckled,
and puffed vigorously at his churchwarden, tickled at the
idea.
This same Mr. Thompson, amateur cock-crower, and

SIDELIGHTS FROM THE STAGE.

31

president of the Crown Inn parlour, was the father of the
late Dr. Thompson, Archbishop of York.
A very amusing mistake occurred at the Queen's Theatre,
Manchester, when I was acting there. A young fellow,
who had distinguished himself as an amateur, determined
to enter the profession, and joined the company of that
theatre. After a few weeks' experience he was cast for
the part of Catesby, in Richard the Third. The late
Charles Dillon was the Richard. The young man had
very quickly found out the wide difference between acting
as an amateur and as a professional, and certainly had not
maintained his credit as to the former. On the occasion
I speak of he was very nervous, and had been taken
through all the most important lines several times. An
announcement about which Charles Dillon was most
particular was—" My lord, the Duke of Buckingham is
taken." He made a point of the reply, "Off with his
head; so much for Buckingham." On this occasion,
however, Catesby rushed on the stage, in his haste nearly
falling down, and announced, " My lord, my lord"—a
pause. "Go on, sir, go on," said Dillon aside to him.
u
My lord, my lord, George the Third is taken," replied
Catesby. " George the Third be d—d !" shouted Dillon,
amidst the roars of laughter from the audience. When
Catesby came off the stage, trembling with fright, I said
to him, "What on earth were you thinking of to make
such a mistake ?" " Thinking ? It was the only name I
could think of."
In time the young man became a very fair actor,
playing under the name of Wallis. Strangely enough, I
heard of him again in Texas, and it was a very tragic
story. He was playing with a travailing company. They
were just leaving a town by the night train after performing.

32

FROM LIFE.

Wallis and another member of the company had taken
some ladies into the bar-room of the station to give
them some refreshment before starting. A man was
drinking in the bar at the time. He made a most
insulting remark to the ladies, and Wallis and his friend
turned to defend them, calling the fellow an insolent
blackguard. He instantly drew his revolver, and shot poor
Wallis dead. He then fired again, and wounded the other
young fellow, and aimed at the barkeeper, who made a
rush at him, but he was fortunately seized by a man
entering before he could fire. The ladies were, of course,
almost dead with fright, and ran out screaming. Such
was the lovely system of law and order and respect for life
in Texas that the ruffian was set at liberty the next day,
and no further notice taken of the affair. To make the
fact still more atrocious, he was a member of the Vigilance
Force, enrolled to make people respect the law.
Another amusing mistake was made in the Queen's
Theatre at the opening of a pantomime. At the end of
the usual demon scene the demons had to seize the good
fairy, when the king came up a trap, and stopped their
ungentlemanly proceedings by announcing himself thus—
" Hold, I am Demonconthologus, King of the Eegions of
Fire," at which the demons had to let the fairy go, and
prostrate themselves before his superior power. The fairy
escapes, the red fire burns—tableau. This was the only
speech the king had, and as the pantomime had a full cast
a super was chosen to do it. He appeared at rehearsal
after several trials to be all right, but for his A's, and it was
thought the loss or introduction of these would be lost in
the depth of the mask. At night he was sent np the trap,
and after a pause he began—"Old, old, I ham, I ham/'
"Demonconthologus/' shouted the prompter.
"Yes, I

SIDELIGHTS FROM THE STAGE.

33

ham Demon—Demon." He could get no further, and
from the depths of the mask came a confession of his own
incapacity—" I ham a hinfernal hass I ham," an announcement that was highly appreciated by the audience.
Very early in my theatrical career I commenced management. My first ventures were the Cardiff and Swansea
Theatres in Wales, which I opened during the summer
months, and from the closing of the Bath and Bristol and
other first-class provincial theatres, I was enabled to
engage an excellent company. Some who are now leading
members of the profession in London played their first
good parts during these seasons—notably Mrs. Kendal.
She was engaged for utility, her father the same, her
mother for first old woman. Seeing the girl was clever
and ambitious, I put up the very pretty drama of the
Little Treasiire, and gave her the part of Gertrude, and
very well indeed she played it.
I had met Sir William Don at Manchester, where he
afforded great amusement to the company by dodging the
bailiffs, who were after him during the last week of his
engagement. When they waited for him at the stagedoor he escaped by the front of the theatre; when they
were at the front he got out by the back. On one occasion, the last night, a bailiff got past the doorkeeper and
was waiting at the wings, when Don was on the stage.
The office was given to him, and he remained on the stage,
keeping the audience in roars of laughter, and 'gagging in
Mr. Toodle, whilst the stage-manager and another were
shouldering the bailiff out of the stage-door again. Once
on the other side, the door was shut against him. Don
quickly finished the play, as quickly changed, stooping
down to disguise his great height, left the theatre with
the gallery boys, and was out of Manchester early next

34

FROM LIFE.

morning. Sir William and Lady Don came to me to play
in Swansea and Cardiff on a joint salary of £20 a week.
He arrived in Cardiff on the Saturday, and in the evening
said to me, "Look here, Reeve, you are a youngster in
management. Take my word for it, there is nothing like
your star making a good first impression; we'll go to
church to-morrow morning/' Accordingly, the next morning we met. We waited near the fine old parish church
until the congregation were seated and the organ commenced. Then Don entered, stalked up the centre aisle
of the church, with me at his heels, a good-sized Prayerbook in his hand, and he sat down near the communiontable. All eyes were naturally turned on him. His great
height was in itself an attraction, to say nothing of his
aristocratic appearance. I was never more uncomfortable
in my life. Not so Don. He joined roundly in the
responses and the hymns. When we came out he said,
" There, my boy, that's as good as your spending a £10-note
on advertisements."
One evening he had been quarrelling with his wife, and
came to the theatre to me, saying she had declared she
would not act, asking me to make some excuses to the
audience, which I refused to do, and vowed if she did not
come I would go before the curtain and tell the truth—
that his quarrel with his wife was the reason of her nonappearance. Finding I was determined, he returned to
the hotel, and somehow persuaded her to come back with
him. The piece was Good for Nothing, and I sat in
front of the house, in my box near the stage, to see the
result. It was very funny. During the acting the disagreement was continued by aside speeches. For instance,
Tom has to say, " I am your father." Then Don continued
in an aside to her, " Husband, worse luck!" " Nan, which

SIDELIGHTS FROM THE STAGE.

35

do you love best ?" Nan, aside to him, " Not you, that's
quite certain/' So it went on throughout the piece, the
audience occasionally hearing some of the interpolations,
but not understanding them. I must confess I had a sort
of malicious amusement in listening. One night he was
describing to me the beautiful estate he had mortgaged
and lost, and regretting his folly. I really felt for him, for
he was a good-hearted fellow, and advised retrenchment.
It was agreed to from that moment. He was to start
reform, Lady Don was warned against all future extravagances, and I was to take a lodging for them in Swansea,
Qot to exceed 30s. a week. They were to save £10 a week
out of the £20. I took the lodgings accordingly, but, alas!
for the saving at the end of the week. Don came to me,
and said the lodgings were a swindle. His bill was close
on £20. I was surprised to hear this, and walked home
with him to dinner to look into the matter. It was easily
explained. They had been ^having several courses for
dinner, hot suppers, nothing brought to table a second
time, asparagus, peas, and fruits out of season (which had
to be paid very dearly for), champagne, and any luxury
which happened to suit their taste for the time. " How
the deuce could you expect to live on £10.a week, if you
do this sort of thing ?" I asked. " Expect, why, of course
we did. We only pay 30s. a week for the lodgings?"
"What does that matter if you spend £18 on luxuries?"
" Luxuries be bothered; necessities, upon my soul, Reeve.
A fellow must live like a gentleman." "Then a fellow
must pay like one," I replied; "and hang me if I trouble
any more about you." He had no notion of the value of
money; to keep it in his pocket was quite out of his power,
or to deny himself any want, and Lady Don had the same
nature. She could help to spend, not to save. He died,

36

FROM LIFE.

as the reader probably knows, in Tasmania, away from
his family; and Lady Don had better have shared his
fate, and ended her days there, instead of returning to
England to reap the bitter fruits of her folly after
his death, and die at last in _the infirmary of a Scotch
workhouse.
It was during my lesseeship of these theatres I first
knew Charles Kean. My first interview with him was
in his bedroom, at a Clifton hotel. He was ill with a bad
attack of gout. Mrs. Kean sat with us the greater part of
the time. He talked a great deal about his management
of the Princess Theatre; told me that he had made very
little money by it; that his expenses amounted, with some
of his productions, to as much as £50,000 in one season,
and that he had in some instances as many as 550 people
in his employ. When we came to talk business he rather
amused me by insisting in a very emphatic manner that
I should not allow any one to enter the theatre with nuts
in their pockets. " Well, Mr. Kean," T said, " there will
be some difficulty in my giving directions for every one
to turn out their pockets before entering."
" Yes, yes ! But if there is a nut heard I cannot act,"
he replied.
We compromised the matter by my promising to have
a sharp look-out kept, and to do the best I could to
prevent it.
On the evening of his performance it was rather amusing to wTatch the precautions taken by Mrs. Kean and
Dr. Joy to prevent the slightest noise behind the scenes.
If any one ventured to move or speak in an undertone,
" Hush ! hush !" was heard from the corners, and one of
them darted out on the delinquent. The company at last
took up the joke, and heads were appearing round the

SIDELIGHTS FROM THE STAG&

3?

wings, from the flies, from everywhere (of course when
the stars were not looking). " Hush ! Hush !"
For several years after this Charles Kean sent me
papers with notices on his acting. I remember one particularly from a small town in Ireland, in which it
compared his triumphal march as an actor through the
country to that of a Julius Csesar, an Alexander the Great,
or a Napoleon. It was two columns of the most fulsome
rubbish, and I certainly wondered how he could not only
swallow and digest it, but send it round to his friends.
There is no question, he had one great weakness—vanity.
Many anecdotes are told of him illustrating this, and considering the many sycophants usually at hand to flatter
prosperous managers, I was very surprised to receive a
letter from him in return for a book I published, entitled Romance of Reality, in the preface of which I spoke
kindly and appreciatingly of his magnificent productions.
In his acknowledgment he says:—" Your words have
given me great and sincere pleasure, because it is the
first time in my long theatrical experience that a kind and
gratifying expression of feeling on the part of any member
of the profession has been made known to me."
This correspondence took place before I met him. I
had written simply what I felt, that the profession and
public owed him a deep debt of gratitude, a debt that
would bear rich fruit in the future in the representation
of Shakespearian drama, which I consider it has done.
I t was said that Dr. Joy, his constant friend, business
manager, and attendant, wrote many of the more flattering notices, when papers could be got to insert them.
One appeared in London, winding up with the line
from Keats—
" A thing of beauty is a joy for ever,"

38

FROM LIFE.

One of the weekly papers, I think the Saturday Review, in
commenting on the notice, said it was evidently a mistake
of the printer's, the line should run—
" A thing of beauty is Dr. Joy for ever."

No leading actor suffered more from the persistent
attacks of a portion of the press than Charles Kean.
The most bitter and powerful of all pens was Douglas
Jerrold's. From a dispute arising in the first instance over
one of Jerrold's plays submitted to the management and
declined, he led the ridicule against him. Kean was said
to have ruined the Shakespearian drama by the so-called
upholstery and finery with which he had illustrated it, the
surroundings destroyed the poetry.
As this argument would not very well apply to the
production of Macbeth, with its rude dresses of coarse
material, rough furniture, coarse table food for the
banquet, lit by the glare of pine-torches, they blamed
him then for doing away with the outrageous modern
Tartan, the gilt pasteboard goblets and fruit pieces, the
modern candelabras of the ordinary Macbeth performance.
He might as well have played Sardanajpalus in modern
clothes and modern drawing-room scenes, instead of seeking
consistence in the authority of Layard's Nineveh discoveries, and instructing the public, as he did, with
historical accuracy as to Nineveh and its life in the days
of the voluptuous Assyrian.
In Henry the Eighth he showed them the ball-room of
York-place in the time of Wolsey; the trial of Queen
Katherine, as described in history; the London of Richard
and Henry the Fifth, with the engines of war, the guns,
fireballs, barricades at the siege of Harfleur; and in
Wolsey, Shylock, Louis XL, and other parts he was an

S I D E L I G H T S FROM T H E

STAGE.

39

admirable actor. The last time I spoke with him was at
the Theatre Royal, Newcastle; he was playing the latter
character. After one of the acts I went round to shake
hands. He was very ill, was leaning on the back of
a chair, and could hardly move towards me. It was
almost his last performance. A few weeks afterwards he
died.
Credit has not been given to him, and is not in the
present day, for what he did and the example he set,
which Henry Irving has followed with so much Mat.
Times are now changed. In Irving's case the praise of
theatrical Europe has encouraged his work, and thousands
of profits have fallen into his treasury. Kean had to
defend himself for the daring innovation of archaeological
and historical accuracy which he persisted in introducing
on the stage. In his farewell speech, the last night of his
management of the Princess's, he does so with sorrow, not
unmixed with pride :—" Had I been guilty of ornamental
introductions for the mere object of show and idle spectacle, I should assuredly have committed a grievous error;
but, ladies and gentlemen, I may safely assert that in no
single instance have I permitted historical truth to be
sacrificed to theatrical effect."
Colonel Mapleson, like Lumley and Alfred Bunn, has
recently let some light into the worries of operatic
management. I cannot imagine a position more trying
to the temper and, iu nearly all cases, the pocket. "The
queens of song," angelic as they sometimes look on the
stage, are very often anything but angelic off. As a rule
they are unreasonable, jealous, and exacting. And " kings
of song " are very little better. My experience has taught
me the cultivation of high musical ability appears to
encourage the unamiable qualities I have mentioned. I

40

FROM LIFE.

am sorry to say the exception is to find a leading singer
or musician more or less without these failings. How is it
to be accounted for ?
"Music hath charms to soothe the savage breast."

So it has to the listener, perhaps nothing more so; then
why not to the singer or musician? The question is a
puzzling one we will not stop to inquire into, but proceed
to a little experience of my own with Mapleson. I had
the new Edinburgh Theatre at the time, and arranged
with him to bring his full company from the London
Opera-house, including that glorious singer and amiable
woman Madame Titiens, also Madame Trebelli and the
chief members of his orchestra and chorus; our combined
expenses amounting to £1500 a week. The theatre was
a new and very fine one, and when the stage was put
down, I had taken the precaution to provide a small trap
for the withdrawal of the disguise of Faust in the first act,
when he changes from youth to age, for use whenever the
opera or drama should be acted. In the morning of the
performance of the opera, the stage-manager came to me
and said another trap must be cut. Signor G. wanted it
about 18in. nearer the footlights. The alteration was
absurd, as the difference could not possibly matter to him.
I positively refused, as it would materially interfere with
the form of the mechanism of the stage, and I could see it
was nothing but obstinacy. The rehearsal was delayed to
allow of a long argument. At last Signor G. proceeded
to rehearse. In the evening there was a long delay in the
rising of the curtain. At last, after my joining in the
wordy warfare, and insisting on the curtain going up, the
opera began. At the point where he threw off his disguise
Signor G. deliberately threw it away from the trap, and

SIDELIGHTS FROM THE STAGE.

41

so purposely destroyed the illusion of the change. The
act over, another long wait. On going round, I found
Signor G. had refused to sing another note, and had gone
to his dressing-room; he was taking off his stage things
and putting on his ordinary clothes previous to walking
out of the theatre. What was to be done ?
" Well," I said, " Mr. Mapleson, I must hold you
responsible if we have to dismiss the audience."
"You had better go in front, Reeve, and tell the
audience somebody has fainted, or been taken suddenly
ill. They will listen to you better than to me. Get them
to wait."
" I think they have been waiting long enough."
" What the devil can I do ?"
"Have you got any one else in the theatre who can go
on for the part ? " I asked.
"To be sure, there is Signor P., who was here a
minute ago."
Signor P. was at once sought for; dresses were found for
him; the audience were quieted by the story of sudden
illness. Signor P. was just ready when Signor G., passing
the dressing-room in his street clothes on his way out of
the theatre, saw him. That was enough; another storm
of words. " Ah, you Mapleson ! you vant him to play my
part. You sneak of a P . ! you vant to play my part, and
think you do much; see you to the devil first!" He
rushed back to his dressing-room, tore off his things, put
on his Faust dress more quickly than he ever did in his
life before, was on the stage in a few minutes, much to
our amusement, and the opera continued to the end
without further delay.
Speaking of Edinburgh, I am reminded it was there I
first met Joseph Jefferson. He had taken a fine old-

42

FROM LIFE.

fashioned but badly-drained house, where his wife and
child unfortunately got typhoid fever before they left it.
He rented the house for several months to reside quietly
in Edinburgh. We met first through my old friend,
Charles Mathews, who had been playing an engagement
with me, and I found Jefferson one of the kindest and
most genial of men. We arranged a few days' fishing in
the Highlands. Leaving Edinburgh, our way lay through
the Trossachs to Loch Katrine. Good health, lovely
weather, lovely scenery, and a most pleasant companion,
what could a man more desire ? All the troubles of
management I left behind in Edinburgh. We lodged at
a small inn, near the upper part of the loch with a very
unpronounceable name. We fished, and, to my great
delight, I pulled out several fine fat two and two and a
half pounders, whilst Jefferson, who was an adept at
fishing, only secured a few small ones. Americans as a
rule suffer from indigestion—Jefferson did—and it is little
wonder; they eat so quickly, and revel in indigestible
food. His idea of property was very characteristic of the
man; his theory was that a fattier or relation, if he or she
could afford it, should never keep expectants waiting,
contemplating the chances of your death as being to their
advantage. When a girl marries or a boy settles down in
life to a business or profession, they should then have the
money intended for their portion, and the giver would
have the pleasure of advising, seeing it enjoyed and made
the best of; it did away with that horrible idea of waiting
" for dead men's shoes!" " This is what I have done,"
said Jefferson; " and I have great happiness in it."
When not fishing he was painting, studying the grand
lights and shadows of the sky and water. He had a
theory—a picture could be made out of a tree, a cloud,

SIDELIGHTS FROM THE STAGE.

43

and a bit of foreground. To my surprise, I found he was
a most confirmed spiritualist. The exposure of Slade and
the slate-writing had just occurred. Notwithstanding the
evidence to prove Slade was a humbug, he defended his
integrity and power. Robert Heller, one of the cleverest
entertainers of the time, had just been in Edinburgh.
Heller told me that the exhibition of thought and object
reading, as done by himself and the lady with him, was
trickery, inasmuch as he conveyed the nature of the object
to her by the manner of his question. Thus, " What is
this ? " " What " would mean silver, " is " a half-crown,
" t h i s " a George the Third. Every word conveyed a
meaning. " Come, make haste," would give a date;
"make haste, come/' another, and so forth. Heller said
the vocabulary they had was immense, including nearly
all probable objects; they were always practising it. This
second-sight or object-reading has been a mystery to
many, and this is a simple explanation. At a dinnerparty given by Mr. and Mrs. Wyndham, of Edinburgh, he
illustrated it with rings on the fingers of two or three of
the guests. I explained this to Jefferson, who had said
Heller worked by spiritualism, but it was of no use, he
replied Heller was gammoning me; he was a spiritualist,
he felt convinced, and worked through that means. I
wonder if he still believes in that mysterious power,
which, if true, only gives the most unsatisfactory results.
We talked of a system then, and for several years
previously, common in London, and I suppose to some
extent it is so now, " theatrical deadheads." The lookeron has no idea of the extent to which this is carried.
When playing at the Lyceum I was surprised at the
difference between the cash returns and the house. The
same at the Charing Cross Theatre, and afterwards at the

44

FROM LIFE.

Olympic, stalls and circle filled with people in evening
dress. I afterwards learnt it was an understood thing,
with houses like Lewis and Allenby, Peter Robinson's,
Waterloo-house, Whiteley's, and such places, that young
men and women employed in them, would, on receiving
orders, put on evening dress, and so fill theatres, with a
seeming fashionable audience.
Ladies' schools were
worked by the acting-manager in the same way. Dion
Boucicault was no doubt the first who perfected this
pernicious system. It may occasionally serve its turn, by
bolstering up a piece like The Bells, as it did at first
with Henry Irving, and make a successful piece or actor.
But the injury done in trying to bolster up bad pieces,
and bad actors and actresses, is incalculable, besides
creating thousands of " deadheads," who never after think
of paying. I have known people with no earthly claim to
free admission positively feel themselves insulted if asked
to pay; the same with your tradesman. If you buy his
goods and pay for them, he takes it as a right that if he
wants an order he should get one.
A provincial manager, Mr. Charles Rice, who was
foolish enough to try his fortune with producing pantomimes for two years at Covent-garden, the Christmas
and New Year season, told me that it took a clerk his
entire time to answer the many applications for free
admissions. A morning performance he mentioned when
it looked a brilliant house; the actual amount in was £27.
He amused me by showing me a letter from a lady who
kept a large and expensive school. She wrote for the
entire two first rows of stalls, assuring Mr. Rice she would
fill them " with elegant, well-dressed, lady-like, and most
attractive young ladies;" and, as Rice said, charge the
parents, no doubt, for the seats which she had so im-

SIDELIGHTS FROM THE STAGE.

45

pudently applied for. Mr. Jefferson said when he was
opening in London he found Chatterton, the manager of
the theatre, with a large book before him, as big as a
family Bible, out of which he was dictating to a clerk—
Mr. and Mrs. So-and-so, Major This, Colonel That, the
Hon. the Other.
" What on earth are you doing ?" asked Jefferson.
" Filling your house the first two or three nights/' said
Chatterton.
" W h a t ? " replied Jefferson. "Filling the house with
orders."
" Yes, that's the way we do it; look fchere," and he
showed him the book, names alphabetically arranged—
names that no one,would have dreamt of seeing on the
free-list of a theatre. " You know you must do this sort
of thing to give the thing a go."
"You don't do it for me," said Jefferson. "You will
be kind enough not to send out a single order. If you
give one during my engagement, it is understood you pay
for it; if I give one, I will do the same."
No argument of Chatterton's would move him; as he
was an artist and worth seeing, he was a success without
it. Some people will do the meanest and most contemptible things to get free admission to a theatre.
Commend me to the nature of that stout Yorkshire
farmer, related to a well-known London actor, who told
me the story. The farmer came up to London, and
wanted, of course, to see his relative act.
" All right," said the actor. " I'll get you an.order."
" A what?" asked the Yorkshireman. "An order for
what ?"
" To go to the theatre—a free admission, you know;
then you won't have to pay."

46

FROM LIFE.

" What, not pay to see thee act ? "
" No, you go in for nothing."
" Do I ? Not if I know it, my lad. If I goes in to
see thee act for nothing, how do'st think thy measter can
pay thy wage ? He might as weel ask me to give him a
truss of hay for nothing. That's not the way to keep
the farm a going. I pays my money like a man."
I should have shaken hands with that sensible farmer,
and quoted Shakspeare, slightly altered, to him—
" 'Tis very true, oh, wise and upright farmer,
How much more elder art thou than thy looks."

"Come to my dressing-room at the Haymarket Theatre
to-morrow night; wait for me until I have finished.
We'll then go to Evans's and have a chop and a long
talk," said E. A. Sothern to me one day on the steps of
the Garrick Club. I promised to keep the appointment,
and the next evening was in his dressing-room, a small
uncomfortable place, built when they cared very little
about the comfort of actors. The day had been a damp,
miserable one, and he haol been following the Queen's
hounds in the neighbourhood of Windsor, only returning
in time to hastily drive to the theatre and dress. He
looked very tired, and coughed a good deal. It seemed
to me a mad thing to do with his delicate health and
weak chest. "What is the use of giving way?" he said.
" It is just as well to make the best of the world, and play
it out whilst you are in it."
"That depends," I replied, "on how long you want
the play to last."
After the play was over we drove to Evans's, not the
miserable apology of its last years, but the Evans's before
the change came, when rubicund-faced Paddy Green, in

SIDELIGHTS FROM THE STAGE.

47

his faultless dress, came looming through the cigar-smoke,
to greet familiar faces. " How do you do, my lord ?"—
"fine night," "wet night," or "cold night/' as the case
might be. " How are you, Mr.
? how's the chop, dene
to a turn, e h ? " And the chops were "done to a t u r n " ;
no such chops or potatoes on a cold night could be had
elsewhere. What potatoes—fine, smoking hot, mealy
falling to pieces when you squeezed their brown skins!
How few people in the world have ever tasted a properly
cut and cooked chop and roasted potato! Fewer still
know how to cook them. The world would be a better
world if housewives would only learn. Many bad words
from husbands and lodgers would be unspoken, and the
recording angel would have an easier time of it.
The surroundings gave an additional charm to a
supper at Evans's—the pictures round the walls, the
many well-known London faces in the room, politicians,
poets, painters, novelists, actors, men with titles, and the
famous choir of well-trained boys' voices, Herr von Joel
and his farmyard imitations, Cowel, Smart, Ross, and
other well-known singers of the day. Then there was
the stout waiter, who took your money and took you in
with a marvellous way of reckoning up the score. Suppose
you had a chop, a potato, a glass of stout, and a cigar.
This would in an ordinary way come to half-a-crown, but
our stout friend's score would run about as follows:—
" Chop, yes sir, Is., sir; bread and potatoes, 6d.> yes sir;
potato, 6d, yes sir; I think you said two cigars ? ' No,
one/ Yes sir, Is.; bottle of stout, Is. 6d., yes sir—4s. Qd."
Others were waiting to pay. He had rattled on, you got
so confused as to what you really had had, you paid your
4s. Qd. like a lamb, and departed. Well, it was worth
paying double; everything you had by way of refreshment

48

FROM LIFE.

was first-rate, everything you heard was healthy, no
suggested dirt. Has any night resort taken its place, I
wonder, on the same lines in London? I fancy not.
The life of London now wants something faster, less
respectable, stronger, to tickle the jaded appetites of men.
What pleased our early manhood and the manhood of
our fathers would now be voted slow.
This dissertation on Evans's is hardly out of place in
turning on these sidelights from the stage, for no supper
resort was so visited by the profession. To return, however, to Sothern and the particular night I write of. We
talked shop. He told me all he endured when he first
rehearsed at the Haymarket—how the company sneered
at their parts, thought the piece rubbish, and said so—
how they stood at the wings and quietly guyed it and his
rehearsing—how they pronounced it a dire fiasco, and told
the critics so. On the last morning he said—" They made
me feel so nervous and bad; I went home, threw myself
on the bed, and was as sick as a dog." It is tolerably
well-known that Dundreary was not a success at first.
Buckstone, influenced by his company no doubt, would
have withdrawn it, but was persuaded by Charles Mathews
and a few others to keep it on and force it. Its enormous
success afterwards is a matter of history. It is only
another of the many instances showing how little the
most experienced amongst us can gauge the taste of the
public, and say what will be a success and what will not.
"Op to the night we were together at Evans's he and
Buckstone had divided £30,000 profit, he told me. So
soon as the success came, and when the engagement with
Buckstone was renewed, Sothern paid the company back
the score he owed them, by ignoring the existence of
several, by refusing to have the salaries of " Buckstone's

SIDELIGHTS FROM THE STAGE.

49

pensioners," as he called them, when their services were
not required, charged on the lists of expenses, and by other
means of annoyance in his power.
I am reminded in recalling our talk of that night of
Sothern's plan of future economy and saving. He said he
had found he could live well and keep his carriage on 3s.
in every pound he was earning. He had resolved to
invest the remaining 175. in good securities. " You know
it's necessary, Reeve. One never knows how long the
public will stick to you; the idol of to-day, they may
knock you off your pedestal to-morrow, and if you have
not provided against this, where are you ? Done. A
man's a fool who doesn't save when he can." I quite
agreed with him, and I often thought of this when I
knew his life afterwards with his dukes and lordly companions. After the thousands he received very little was
left when he died. Like Sir William Don, it was much
easier to his nature to talk of economy and saving than
to practise it. His practical jokes are matter of theatrical
history. There is one he told me, which I have only seen
printed in his memoirs. The postmaster of a town he
was playing in, made himself objectionable by refusing to
send a parcel, just above the post size. Sothern found
he could send a pasteboard hat-box, so he bought a
dozen, directing them to a stranger, and revelled in the
idea of the anger of the postmaster, the difficulties of the
postman, and the surprise of the man to whom they were
directed.
I was sometimes the victim of his envelopes, with extraordinary printed headings, which made everybody laugh
and wonder, particularly the postman or servant who delivered them to you. Sometimes his tricks were thoughtless
and dangerous. I will relate one. I received a letter
E

50

FROM LIFE.

from him when at Scarborough, to the effect that he had
engaged a very pretty young girl, new to the stage, to go
with him to America. He wanted to know what she
could do, and had promised to send her to a friend, and
she was on her way to me. I was to give her a part, and
let him know the result. The girl arrived, a very pretty,
dark-eyed, innocent-looking creature. On questioning her
I found she had never acted in her life—had never hardly
been to a theatre—had been in some situation, and was
attracted by an advertisement, which Sothern had put in
the Era—" Wanted, two pretty girls to accompany Mr.
Sothern to America." She had left her situation and
London without the knowledge of her parents. On giving
her a small part in a farce, she played, however, much
better than I expected. I wrote this to Sothern, whereupon came a reply :—
"DEAR WYBERT R,—Give her another trial. Let me hear from
you what you think she is fit for.—Yours ever,
"E.

A. SOTHERN."

I gave her two or three parts. Then wrote to say I had
done so; she would do for utility. But I could not make
out what he wanted to take her to America for. A few
days afterwards came a reply:—
" DEAR WYBERT R,—I don't intend taking her to America now.
You think she will do for utility, so you can have her. You are a
good-hearted fellow. Take her, and my blessing. I am off to*
morrow. I send her a note.—Yours ever,
"E.

A. SOTHERN."

The note was for £5, or £10, if I remember rightly. The
sell was intended for me, but the girl was cruelly disappointed. She was afraid to go back home, and I could not
leave the girl to her fate, so I agreed to give her £1 10s. a
week, and to make use of her services in such parts as I

SIDELIGHTS FROM THE STAGE.

51

could. I was after the Scarborough season going on tour.
Of course, this was a chance. I might not have been able
to do anything with her, and one could hardly turn a
young girl like this adrift. It turned out, however, most
fortunate, and the sequel is a strange one. A well educated, gentlemanly, and promising actor in my company
fell in love with her. They must have been together with
me nearly two years. He married her. He is now a
manager, and one of the most popular actors on the London
stage, and the lady is described to me (I have never seen
either of them since) as a handsome, quiet, lady-like
woman, mixing in the best artistic society of London.
This is something of a romance. As Terence writes:—
" How often events by chance and unexpectedly come to
pass, which you had not dared to hope for !"
" Hilloa, Reeve, is that you, old fellow !" said a voice on
one of the railway-station platforms near York, accompanied
by a slap on the back. On looking round I found it was
Sothern, but so changed I hardly knew him. " Are you
going to Scarborough ?" " Yes," I said. " How are you ? "
"Bad, deuced bad, Reeve. Come into our carriage and
travel with us. I am glad to see you. Well have a talk."
I t was a different one to the talk at Evans's. He was
travelling down with an elderly, talkative lady. I forget
her name. She was to keep house for him. There were
three children also, belonging to her daughter. The
carriage was filled with two or three feather-bolsters and
pillows, all sorts of parcels of all sizes, children's toys,
children's food and sweets, crumbs all over the carriage. He
smoked as usual. I did the same, and looked at him, carelessly dressed, turning very gray, his face old-looking and
Worn. Occasionally he brightened up with some of his old
fire, but he had played his play. The curtain was falling.

52

FROM LIFE.
" All when life is new
Commence with feelings warm and prospects high ;
But time strips our illusions of their hue,
And one by one in turn, some grand mistake,
Casts off its bright skin yearly like the snake."

We parted on the Scarborough platform, and never met
again.
There are few, if there is any, name more endeared to
the Australian theatre-goer of a generation back than
that of Gustavus V. Brooke. He seems to have formed
the standard by which tragedians have since been judged.
My first recollection of him as one of an audience was a
most pleasant one—my last experience with him as a
manager was a very painful one.
Some years before I had decided to enter the profession,
I saw an announcement in the London papers—the
appearance of a celebrated tragedian Mr. Gustavus V.
Brooke at the Olympic Theatre, and I made up my mind
to be there. Often under the greatest difficulties I
managed to visit the theatre as a boy to see anything
particularly attractive. The cook was my great friend on
all such occasions, by not only assisting me to get out,
when I was supposed to be in bed, but in leaving a little
supper ready for me on my return. I never enjoyed any
suppers like them, probably because I was most deserving
of a thrashing.
On this occasion I remember the Olympic crowded to
the doors, and such enthusiasm as is seldom heard. At
the end of the third act Brooke was called on, and nearly
every one in the house stood up to cheer and wave hat or
handkerchief. It was a triumph, and decided my fate. I
thought of it for days. I began studying Othello, and
spouting it at every opportunity. I confided to my more

SIDELIGHTS FROM THE STAGE.

53

intimate friends my intention of going on the stage. The
third act I played at an evening party, with Cooper the
Royal Academician's daughters as Desdemona and Emilia,
and a son or near relation of Sir Edwin Landseer's as
Iago. I blacked my face, and was days before I could get
the black out of my skin, for I knew nothing of the secret
of putting it on. I therefore date Brooke's appearance as
the climax only needed to fix my resolve, which some
years after I carried out in despite of the attraction of a
military life, and the breaking up of family ties.
After entering the profession, to my delight I met him
at Sheffield, but he was changed then; the fine voice I
remembered was broken and hoarse. Young at the time,
and entrusted with parts I was not equal to from lack of
experience, I found him kind, considerate, and helpful. I
managed to lodge in the same house; this led to conversation. I was naturally sanguine, full of the high mission
of the Drama and the grandeur of the Art, and I was surprised to find he was not quite so enthusiastic; no doubt
I amused him; he had been through the mill, I had not.
Years then passed over; he had been to Australia and
made a name there, and at one time, as he told me, a
great deal of money, £50,000, and lost it in the Theatre
Royal, Melbourne, and Cremorne Gardens. He came back
to England, and we met in the same theatre again, the
Royal Sheffield, of which I was then manager for Mr.
Charles Pitt. He brought with him Miss Avonia Jones and
Mr. Richard Young, but he was far from being the Brooke
of the Olympic, and the engagement was not a successful
one. We decided, however, to play him at the Theatre,
Newcastle-under-Lyne, two or three months later on. I
took the company over. Miss Jones was there, when to my
horror I received a telegram on the morning he was to

54

FROM LIFE.

open from his agent, Mr. Wilton, " Brooke arrested; send
money to release him, or cannot play." I sent money, but
he did not arrive until Wednesday—it was then too late ;
the engagement was ruined, and a considerable loss was
the result. His share for the nine nights was nothing
like enough to pay his expenses, and I had to provide
the deficiency. Generous to a fault, others reaped whatever harvest his engagements produced. Miss Jones and
Mr. Young had left for Manchester; he had to pay the hotel
bill, and whilst asking me to let him have the money to
do so, I could not help noticing his agent's wife, sitting in
the room elegantly dressed with diamond rings on her
fingers, nursing a pet Italian greyhound. Then there was
his journey to Manchester. I would gladly have paid this
too, but I would not pay for his hangers-on, so I arranged
with the station-master that they should go through on
the security of their luggage, Miss Jones to release it on
their arrival.
After his first Olympic engagement and the second
visit to London, when he played at Drury-lane, he was
never successful, and even on these occasions his attraction
soon fell off. His last season at the Lane was disastrous; I
remember E. L. Blanchard telling me the houses were
down to £40, £30, and £25. It' is difficult to know why
the Londoners were not more attracted by him, though
on studying his acting after the glamour was over of the
Othello opening night, he always seemed to me to lack
originality and genius. There were no great flashes of
the latter, which in some actors and actresses have atoned
for much that was mediocre. His physical qualifications
were unquestionably fine; his voice at one time wonderfully powerful, and in its lower tones pathetic and
beautiful. I have a vivid recollection of his delivery that

SIDELIGHTS FROM THE STAGE.

55

Olympic night of the " Farewell the tranquil mind!"
speech. I never heard it the same afterwards.
The last letter I received from him was the following:—
" King's Arms Hotel, Dumfries,
" M Y DEAR REEVE,

" Will your arrangements admit of receiving me for a few
nights ? If so, when ?
" Please reply by return, and I will, if possible, make arrangements
that may suit your time. I have had a rough time, but a good time
is waiting me in Australia again. With best wishes for your success,
" I am, my dear Mr. Reeve,
" Yours sincerely,
"GUSTAVUS V. BROOKE.'*

I could not arrange to receive him; indeed I was doubtful about it paying either of us. A few weeks after he
embarked on board the ill-fated London, for that " good
t i m e " he was fated never to see. Had he reached
Australia, I fear it would only have been to meet with
bitter disappointment, for he was a broken man. His
acting was gone, his attraction would have gone with it.
Sad as it may appear, his heroic death on board the
London was the noblest and best record with which to
drop the curtain on his life.
" Attired only in a red Crimean shirt and trousers, bareheaded and bare-footed, G. V. Brooke exerted himself
incessantly," wrote a survivor. " He worked at the pumps
until it was found to be useless, and when last seen he
was leaning with grave composure upon one of the half
doors of the companion. His chin was resting upon both
hands, and his hands were on the top of the door, which
he gently swayed to and fro as he calmly watched the
terrible scene." " If you succeed in saving yourself," he
said to a steward, " give my farewell to the people of
Melbourne," These were, it is saidA his last words; no

56

FROM LIFE.

wonder his memory and name in Australia is a household
word.
Writing of G. V. Brooke, one's thoughts naturally turn
to another actor, an Australian favourite, and*a clever but
eccentric man, who met with a terrible death by his own
hand—Walter Montgomery. I knew him when first he
entered the profession at Bristol. Mr. James Chute, the
manager, had a somewhat unruly leading man, spoilt by
being so great a favourite. When in London he heard of
a clever amateur, playing in one of the amateur theatres a
Shakespearian leading part. His name then was Tomlinson, I think, though he played under that of Montgomery,
and at the time he was a designer in patterns for shawls
and ironwork. Mr. Chute went to see him act, and was
so much struck with him he thought he would be an excellent foil to play against his leading man; he therefore
offered him an engagement, which he accepted. At first
of course there was a great deal of trouble, the public
taking the part of the old favourite, but Montgomery
gradually won his way. Socially he was thought peculiar.
He did not associate with other members of the company;
travelled first-class to and fro to Bath, when the rest,
including the manager, travelled second; was seen on
horseback often; and in those days, when being a member
of a stock company meant playing six or more fresh parts
a week, and salaries were small, it was a matter of surprise
how he did it. He remained there for some months. The
next time I met him we were both members of the
Manchester Stock Company; and here he hunted with the
Trafford hounds, had his letters addressed to the chief
hotel, and did singular things to attract attention. I
remember on one occasion a merchant there gave a picnic.
Montgomery had by this time become exceedingly popular

SIDELIGHTS FKOM THE STAGE.

57

through his readings more than his acting, and in society
it was the right thing to invite him. On this occasion
every one waited and waited, and at last started without
him. After* we were all seated and attacking the provisions, up came Montgomery driving a hansom cab with
the cabman inside; perhaps the taste was questionable,
but it served his turn, and created an impression. He was
never successful in London; no doubt he did himself
injury at the starting by the absurd way he had of
advertising himself. One of the leading London papers
commenced its notice of his opening at the Haymarket
with his own company in these words:—
" When a showman, having to encounter the din of a
country fair and the conflicting claims of rival exhibitions, shouts down from the perch through his broadmouthed trumpet a florid description of the superior
attractions he has on view for the astonishment of the
multitude, the most credulous of rival sight-seekers is
prepared to expect a marked contrast between the promise
without and the performance within. . . . A system
tolerated in connection with a country booth is, however,
not yet so closely associated with the London Theatre
that its adoption can be suffered to pass without eliciting
strong expressions of surprise," &c. It speaks further in
strong terms whilst acknowledging his ability—" We
must unequivocally affirm that a London playbill has
never before been disfigured by such a striking illustration
of bad taste and arrogance." * I have one of these playbills,
and I must confess I do not wonder at its being severely
handled. It is one of the most extraordinary productions
I ever read. The notice in the paper I quote from says
very truly, "Mr. Montgomery could well afford to abide
by the opinion of the public "—that is the " pity of it,"

58

FROM

Years
America
received
few days
the time

LIFE.

passed over, and Montgomery after visiting
and Australia came to London again. I then
the following letter from him. It was written a
only before he committed suicide, and proves at
he never contemplated such an act.
,

" Grafton Club, Grafton

Street

" MY DEAR M R . KEEVE,

" H a v e you a Company now at Nottingham, and do you
require my services ? If Mr. Coleman has seen you, of course you
need not trouble to answer this.
" I think of opening the Holborn Theatre or Comedie* Frangais.
If, as I hear, you are finishing at Notts, would it not suit you to
bring them, the Company, bodily here, and go in with me in the spec ?
" This is merely a respectful suggestion in the absence of any
positive knowledge of your views, and only as a dream of my own
I throw it out.
" Yours very truly,
"WALTER

MONTGOMERY."

It was, to say the least, a singular proposal, as he had
not long before made a failure at the Gaiety; it only
confirmed the idea I had always had of Montgomery, that
a little of the " mind diseased " accounted for many of his
actions.
There is one thing in connection with his death I may
refer to. He left the Duke of Edinburgh a valuable ring;
and Melton the hatter, one of his executors, told me that,
to his surprise, Montgomery was hardly buried before the
Duke sent to inquire after and demand it.
I have only a few lines to write about the deservedly
popular tragedian of the present day, Mr. Henry Irving.
I have seen varied accounts of his going to London. The
late Mr. Boucicault, Mr. John Ryder, and Mr. Oreswick
all claimed to have exerted some influence in it, and to
have discovered his genius. When a man gains the

SIDELIGHTS FROM THE STAGE.

59

highest step of the ladder it is astonishing how many
have seen the certainty of his climbing to the top, and
have given him a shoulder up. The fact, however, of my
having something to do with this event, was simply the
result of circumstances.
Irving was known in the provinces as a good useful
actor, and joined the Manchester Company when I left to
take up management. Some little time after this, Miss
Herbert, manageress of the St. James' Theatre, came to
Ryde, then one of my theatres, to play an engagement
with me, and she then renewed an offer she had previously
made, for me to take the position of comedian at the St.
James's. On looking back to my diary of the time I find
the following which explains itself:—
" Walked with Miss Herbert on Ryde Pier; still wanting
me to play at the St. James's, and open in Doriccurt; gave
me two more days to think about it."
Two days after I write :—
" A long talk again with Miss Herbert. As I have two
theatres on my hands and a company, decided not to go.
She seemed very disappointed; asked me what she should
do. Thought of Henry Irving, who followed me in Manchester; advised her to write to Mr. Chambers; promised to
do so as well, if engaged, for Mr. Knowles to release him."
On the following day is the entry :—
" Wrote to Chambers about Irving."
Mr. Chambers was the manager for Mr. Knowles, and
Mr. Irving went to the St. James's in my place.
Now for the last of these sidelights—my old friend,
John L. Toole. I saw him off to England only last week,
after his successful Australian tour. He was a companion
with Sothern in many of his practical jokes, and, as
every one knows, his name is the synonym of fun and good-

60

FKOM LIFE.

fellowship. Some years ago he played a very good trick
in Edinburgh. A well-known comedian in the provinces
of England, who, strange to say, died, alone and almost
uncared-for, in Sydney about three years ago, a few weeks
after his arrival from England, was extremely vain as to
his fascinating qualities with the ladies, though a little,
plain-looking man. He was a swell of rather a loud
pattern in his ordinary costume; his shirt-cuffs and collars
were celebrated. Toole and the comedian Mr. E
were
playing at the Edinburgh Theatre, when Toole wrote a
letter—or got it written, I forget which—as if from a lady,
expressing the tenderest sentiments, and the great desire for
an interview with a gentleman for whom she had conceived
such admiration. Two or three letters passed, until a
meeting was arranged at the celebrated fish-dinner hotel
at Newhaven. E
could not keep it to himself—his
elation was great—and he was persuaded by one or two in
the secret to order a first-rate dinner. On the morning he
came to rehearsal, shirt-cuffs unusually long, collar unusually high. Toole tormented him by detaining him as
much as possible, and by chaffing him as to his get-up.
"Awful shame !" said E
to an actor he had taken
into his confidence. " A splendid creature—no doubt an
heiress—she will be waiting. Such a chance, my boy.
Fancy how she must have fallen in love with me to meet
me at Newhaven/'
A cab was waiting at the door of the theatre for E
.
Toole and other friends got into another, and drove as fast
as possible to Newhaven, where they had arranged with
the landlord to carry out the joke. A screen had been
put in the room; behind this they were ensconced when the
victim arrived. It was the most amusing thing to watch
his disappointment when he found the lady had not

SIDELIGHTS FROM THE STAGE.

61

arrived. Over and over again he looked in the glass,
arranging his hair and shirt-cuffs, got up, sat down, looked
out of window. At length the landlord said it was nearly
an hour after the time; the dinner was spoiling. It had
been arranged, however, by Toole; it was not to be ready
until an hour later. The landlord persisted in serving it
up. E
as a last chance, haviDg been told a lady had
arrived in the town by the last omnibus, ran down-stairs
and out to seek for her. No sooner was his back turned
than the party emerged from behind the screen, took their
places at the table, and commenced at the dinner. When
about half way through the victim arrived, looking very
dejected and crestfallen. " Serve up the dinner, landlord.
An infernal shame! I shall have to eat it myself," said
E
. " Not at all, sir; it's half eaten already," replied
the landlord, opening the door. The look of blank amazement when E
saw them hard at work can be imagined,
but not described. He soon appreciated how he had been
sold, and was chaffed into good-humour.
I feel sure rie would not mind my writing of an occasion,
when, naturally, he was a little nonplussed by the subeditor of the Scotsman; as it is well known how hard
Toole's brother worked in his behalf, and the affection and
pride he felt in his success.
He gave a supper, as he frequently did, on the last
nights of his engagement in a town, at Edinburgh. I was
the manager of the theatre at the time, and was invited with
representatives of the press and some few friends. On
this occasion healths had been proposed, and the sub-editor
of the Scotsman, who was sitting next to me, had to speak
a few words. He began in very complimentary language
to the host, and then said—" By the way, Mr. Toole, I am
reminded of the time when I first heard your name. I

62

FROM LIFE.

was the editor of a small paper at Hartlepool. Travelling
from there to Newcastle I met a very agreeable gentleman
in the carriage, who, in the course of conversation, asked
me if I had heard of the wonderfully rising young comedian
Mr. John Toole, who was making himself an immense
favourite at the Adelphi Theatre. I replied I had seen,
the name certainly, and that was all. He very kindly
advised me, as a newspaper editor, not to lose sight of him,,
for he was quickly coming to the front as a comedian of
remarkable excellence. He still more kindly offered to
keep me well informed of Mr. Toole's doings, and from time
to time I received very flattering notices and anecdotes.
At length, Mr. Toole, you came to Hartlepool, and again I
met my kind correspondent. I found he was your brother."
But little can be said of him that is not well known, or
of his readiness to help amuse the poor and suffering, and
it was only the other day here in Adelaide, at the Home
for the Destitute—which literally means a better sort of
workhouse—he played in The Spitalfields Weaver, and gave
Trying a Magistrate in the large room used as a chapel
on a platform about six feet wide and twenty feet long,
with no scenery, a screen on each side to dress behind, and
an audience of some two hundred and fifty poor old meni
and women, the lame, the halt, the palsied, and the blind..
Though an old Salvationist and several unkindly spirits
objected to theatricals, but I afterwards noticed did not
object to feeding to repletion on the generous provision of
cakes, sandwiches, tea, and fruit provided by an estimablelady, who originated and carried out the whole affair ;the two hundred and fifty more gracious men and women
laughed heartily at the comedian and enjoyed themselves.
To many it evidently brought back recollections of the old
country. A paralyzed old fellow wanted to shake hands >

SIDELIGHTS FEOM THE STAGE.

63

he knew Toole thirty years ago at the Edinburgh Theatre
—he said forty years, but Toole objected to this. The old
man had kept a shop in George-street, Edinburgh, in those
days. Another old man knew him in Dublin. " God bless
him, sure an' havn't I seen him in Dublin; I was a bit of a
swell too in those days " Poor old chap, little of the swell
now in the blurred, half-blind eyes, and palsied body.
One paralyzed old woman had put on an old black satin
dress and bead-spangled mantle. " The light" of many
" other days," she was gently supported into the room after
insisting on being dressed in all her old finery to do honour
to the occasion. " Ah, dear I bless my soul! I remember
Mr. Toole many years ago. He was the last theatrical I
saw when I had just married my husband, and we were
coming to seek our fortunes in Australia/' What a fortune
to end with ! Clean and well kept as the house is, bright
as the flowers are in the courtyard, and the grass and the
green trees, it is still a home for the destitute—without
fortune, friends—old, decrepid, blind, paralyzed.
" Bon voyage!" to you, my old friend Toole, and your
companions. It is a happy memory—almost the last—to
bear with you from the Australian shores, that you helped,
if only for an hour, to bring laughter and pleasant thoughts
to those who with such a fate have entered on the seventh
age—
" Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything.''

RECOLLECTIONS OF CHARLES MATHEWS.
I HAVE never been more disappointed with a book than
with the Life of Charles Mathews. If a man ever lived
with a history that should have been a most entertaining
one, surely it was Charles Mathews. This belief is
justified by his wit, his varied career, his association with
all the literary, theatrical, and artistic men of the age; his
experiences as a dramatic star in London, and in every
provincial town, from the small " fit-up " to the pretentious
buildings of Manchester and Edinburgh. Not in England
alone, but in America, Canada, Australia, India, and
France, was he known and appreciated. What does the
book contain ? A hastily compiled record, much of it of
little interest to the general reader, and letters not always
well chosen. The whole of the first volume is taken up
with his early associations with the Countess of Blessington,
Lord Normanby, Count D'Orsay, and other members of
the aristocracy, his foolish quarrel with Count D'Orsay,
the letters passing between himself and the latter. Half
the space allotted to such particulars would have been
amply sufficient. As it is, it leaves an unpleasant impression of his being a " tuft-hunter." It places him in a
bad light with respect to his perhaps too lenient parents,

KECOLLECTIONS OF CHAKLES MATHEWS.

65

neglecting his profession as an architect, to fritter away
his time in society, after the many sacrifices they seem to
have made for him. Why publish some of the very foolish
letters he wrote to Madame Vestris ? As with Forster's
Life of Charles Dickens, we liked the man less for having
read the book. How much better is the life of the elder
Mathews!—how much more interesting and complete the
lives of Garrick, Kean, Charles Young, Macready, or old
Tate Wilkinson! It appears to me a biography pieced
together from such material as he had left, and letters at
hand, for the mere purpose of sale before the public had
lost their interest in the man.
There is hardly a man or woman with whom he had
been friendly who could not have assisted with some
anecdotes or characteristic letters more interesting than
many we find here. In his acting one only expected to
be amused; sentiment was out of place. So in his
biography, for he had taught the public to laugh at his
misfortunes. Not long before his death we were dining
together at the Royal Hotel in Scarborough. He had
been telling me stories of his early days, some of which I
find recorded in the book. I said, " Why don't you write
your life ? it would be the most entertaining theatrical
biography ever written." "Well," he replied, " I have
thought of it—many have asked me—in fact, I have
sketched out memoranda for something of the kind."
I expected to hear of his death before long, for I find
the following note in my diary nearly four years before it
occurred:—"September 21st, 1874,—Mathews looks very
much older than on his previous visit, and much thinner.
I noticed it particularly when talking to him in his
dressing-room. I think he is breaking up fast." Yet
when I heard of the sad event I was greatly shocked.

66

FROM LIFE.

It left a blank in my theatrical life I could not understand
or believe. I had known him for sixteen years, and for
thirteen years he had regularly fulfilled engagements with
me. It was always a pleasant event in my management.
We never had a cross word. His engagements were
nearly always pecuniarily satisfactory, and they led to
many hours of friendly chat when business was over. If,
as some who knew him say, he had little heart, he was
always a very amusing and most agreeable companion,
and this cannot be said of many people—theatrical stars
particularly. We were standing behind the scenes one
night in Manchester Theatre Royal waiting to go on in
Used Ujp, when he said : "By Jove ! I have enough to do;
I am going up to town after the performance to-night (it
was Saturday) to see Madame Vestris; she is very ill. I
shall only have an hour or two with her. I must be in
Edinburgh to rehearsal on Monday morning." He travelled
up to London that night, and was back in Scotland on
Monday. She died a few days after.
I was sent a short tour with him by Mr. Knowles, of the
Theatre Royal, Manchester, soon after his release from Lancaster Castle. We had to play two nights each in Preston,
Bolton, Oldham, Leicester, Doncaster, Derby, and Sheffield.
In Preston he found his man had left his Sir Charles
Coldstream coat behind in Lancaster or London. He was
asking me if I had one that would do, when a little bandylegged amateur—by trade, I believe, a shoemaker—the
manager had picked up cheap, in Manchester, to play
servants and messengers, came forward and said, " Don't
be alarmed, Mr. Mathews, don't be alarmed, sir; I will
lend you my Sir Charles Coldstream coat." Hie look as
he took the measure of the queer-looking, seedy little
fellow was something to remember. " Two Richmonds in

RECOLLECTIONS OF CHARLES MATHEWS.

67

the field, eh; I must be cautious—would you oblige me
by playing the part too, sir ?" " Certainly, Mr. Mathews,
with pleasure; know every line." " Well," said Mathews,
" that's more than I do; send for the manager. You look
it, sir—every inch Sir Charles." " And I play it too, sir."
After a little more joking, having worked the conceited
amateur up to a pitch of great exultation, he said, patting
him on the head, " Never mind, my boy, managers are so
exacting, so are the audience; they might not think you
quite as good, and might want their money back. I can't
afford to give it up just now." And he walked away
highly amused.
At Oldham we played in a large hall; there were no
dressing-rooms; we all had to dress at the back of the
stage, with an old scene stuck up to divide us from the
ladies. A small broken screen was set in the middle of
the space, as a compliment to Mr. Mathews, for his use,
but it was too small and too ragged to be of the slightest
use. " Really," he said, on seeing it, " such luxury, and in
Oldham too. Here " (calling to a dirty-looking stage-man),
" will you kindly convey this elegant article of furniture
to the seclusion from whence it came; tell the gentleman
who conceived the delicate attention to me, his overpowering politeness will be ever remembered; take it up, my
good man, and depart." The man walked off with it, very
confused as to whether Mathews was serious or not. He
amused me with his Shakespearian quotations. Taking
up a chair, with the cane broken out of the seat, he
said—
" My mind is troubled like a fountain stirr'd,
And I myself see not the bottom of it."

The chair gave way I was sitting on, and down I fell with
my legs in the air—

FROM LIFE.

68

" And when he falls, he falls like Lucifer."

We could not get the jug replenished with water.
" How poor are they that have not patience!"

And so on, making fun out of our difficulties, and making
me laugh, when otherwise I should have been considerably
out of temper. It wTas a very bad house, and the factory
people who formed the audience could as easily have
appreciated a Greek play and player as they could Mathews
and his pieces, but he was full of fun about them.
We drove back to Manchester in a rickety omnibus, he
having a cab to himself. This gave him the opportunity
of occasionally chaffing us, as we were bumped along on
the road. On our arrival in Derby a letter was waiting
for me, from an eccentric Irish manager I had the misfortune to be under in my early career, a Mr. Huntley
May. He had taken a public-house in Sheffield, and
enclosed a bill of a free-and-easy twice a week. The
bill announced the engagement of the celebrated Irish
comedian, Mr. Macarthy, and of Madame Castaglioni for
the Saturday—the first was himself, the second his wife.
I knew very little of him further than that he gave me,
a young beginner, Iago, Cassius, Falconbridge, Pizarro,
and the Prior in Bertram, with two farce parts to study
and play in one week. How I got through them I cannot
say. At the end of three weeks I left him. The letter
I received was to this effect:—
"DEAR WYBERT REEVE,

" I see you and Charley Mathews are announced. He knows
me; bring him to my house, a first-rate pub. I will take you both
in and do for you. A free-and-easy, with special talent engaged,
twice a week. Theboys will welcome you.—Yours truly,
" HUNTLEY MAY."

BECOLLECTIONS OF CHAKLES MATHEWS.

69

I gave the letter to Mathews, and we had a good ]augh
over the fellow's cool impudence. I said, " H e knows
you/' " Yes/' he replied, " and I know him; the old
blackguard induced me to go to him, said he had a
splendid company, fine theatre and scenery, and the only
living successor to Madame Vestris, whom I was naturally
very anxious to see. I found a barn of a place, rags of
scenes, two old men, and a few grubby boys and girls as
actors and actresses, and the only successor to Madame
Vestris was the old rascal's wife." It is needless to say
we did not patronize his puh.
We played in several wretched theatres during this tour,
such as Oldham, Rochdale, Bolton, a theatre with a
slaughter-house underneath, and a low concert-room,
divided from the auditorium only by a lath and plaster,
or wooden partition, so that Sir Charles Coldstream was
accompanied by distant murmurs of 'The Pretty Barmaid,' or 'The Rat-catcher's Daughter.' The audiences
were not large, but he had the same unfailing good temper.
At this time Mr. Knowles, lessee of the Theatre Royal,
Manchester, having assisted him out of his difficulties,
was "farming him" on a salary; his pockets therefore
were not affected by the receipts.
No one knew better the secret of his success as
an actor than himself. We were talking this over one
night at Ryde in 1865, when he said, " I knew the folly
of my attempting legitimate high comedy from the
first. I was delighted the other night to see a worse
Mercutio than myself at the St. James' Theatre, and I said
to my wife, 'Well, thank heaven, I have at last seen
some one worse than I am.' I never could play Charles
Surface. The secret of my success is that I have stuck to
original parts—written them myself, or had them written

70

FROM LIFE.

for me—so that people always gotthe first impression from
me. There's a lot in that, Keeve. I never could manage
pathos, and so I avoid it; Charles Mathews on the stage,
my boy, is a good deal like Charles Mathews off."
I was surprised, after his speaking so candidly, to read
in the book his letters and statements regarding his great
success in Paris. I was there at the time and saw him
play Plumper in Cool as a Cucumber, at the Varieties, 14th
September, 1863. I had heard at the hotel previously it
was not a success, and from what I saw it could not have
been; the house was badly attended, and his reception
exceedingly cool. He introduced a patter song they did
not in the least appear to understand.
Speaking of Ryde, I find the following in my diary
respecting one of his visits there:—"Walked out to Quarr
Abbey and Woods with Charles Mathews; he was telling
me about his management of Covent Garden and Lyceum.
What a life!—excitement, poverty; it was debt-slavery
and popularity; a character weak and unfitted for business
—accomplished—and in the end more sinned against
perhaps than sinning—a decidedly disappointed life. I did
not give him credit for so much serious thought or feeling.,,
One thing struck me as very singular, he not only told me
then, but on several other occasions:—"Writs—I used to
have them every day. I hardly ever read them or paid
attention to them, but I assure you now, I seriously believe
I should faint if one was put into my hand." What a
change! and one that will hardly be believed by the
world; but I am certain he was sincere.
In 1865 I opened a handsome new theatre, built by Mr.
Phipps, the architect of the Gaiety, Vaudeville, &c, in
London, at South Shields. It was the only fine building
then in this ugly and very dirty town. In June Charles

RECOLLECTIONS OF CHARLES MATHEWS.

11

Mathews and Mrs. Mathews came to play an engagement
with me. I was sitting at my lodgings one Sunday
evening, when a quick step ran up the stairs, the door
was pushed open, and Mathews entered. "You're a
nice fellow to bring me and .the wife to such a place,
travelling all day. Can get nothing at that confounded
Golden Lion. Talk of' soup and ragout/ not even eggs and
bacon. Mrs. Mathews is dying for tea, if she is not dead
already. Gome back with me and help to wake them up."
I returned with him, and by that time, in a stuffy little
sitting-room, Mrs. Mathews had arrived at the tray and
some cups and saucers, nothing else. I thereupon bullied
the landlord, "how could he expect me to recommend
his house, &c.," and then Jbe bullied his wife and everybody
else. The tea-pot was taken up. I followed triumphant, but
alas! we had to ring for the milk, the sugar, the butter, and
finally the eggs and bacon, the only dish they could serve,
and the eggs were borrowed. He was delighted, however,
with the theatre, and with the complete manner his pieces
were mounted, but the engagement did not pay me. A
theatrical patron said, " He's like yirself, Mister Reeve, a
bit stuck up, thee sees. Shields folks likes actors to come
among 'urn an' tak a drink an' tip us a comic song now an'
agin. We canna do wi' high pertatees."
On this visit Mathews called upon me on the Sunday
morning, and we walked to Marsden Rocks, about four miles
from Shields, on the coast line, one of the grandest bits of
bold picturesque scenery in England—the very paradise of
an artist. One huge detached rock stands out in the sea
300 feet high, all the bottom honeycombed with eccentric
arches and caves, some of which may be entered at low
water. There is one grand arch or bridge of great height
connecting the outer portion of the rock to the inner. A
stretch of sand extends between this and the mainland.

n

FROM LIFE,

Here there is a large cave with a hole in the roof, cut
right through to the top of the cliff. I t is called the
Smugglers' Cave, and through this hole, so history says,
they raised contraband goods. Great rugged peaks and
pinnacles of rocks stand out, some entirely detached in this
wild bay; and to make the scene complete, there are
always two or three wrecked hulls of vessels breaking up
on the shore, most fitting accompaniments to such a scene.
There is another attraction in a public-house, or hotel as it
is called, nearly on a level with the sands—the rooms,
sitting-rooms, bedrooms, bar, ball-room and tea-room for
large parties, all dug out of the solid rock. The inner
walls are all rock, the ceilings rock, and the front of the
house and enclosures are made chiefly with the timber of
wrecks picked up on the adjacent sands. There are names,
figure-heads, and all sorts of ship-timbers to tell of the many
calamities with which this coast is associated; and into
this house many a half-drowned wretch and many a dead
one has been carried in from the storm. Mathews was
delighted with it, and wished for his drawing materials to
sketch. He said he would make a journey there again, but
I suppose the opportunity never occurred. It was during
this walk he told me how, through the advice and determination of the present Mrs. Mathews, he had rescued himself
from the Manchester manager, who had held authority over
him for years. During this time he had thought between
what he earned and what he received as a salary, he had
paid off a considerable portion of the debt, but found to his
amazement he was only credited with it as interest. Exposure was threatened, and instead of this " serfdom for
life," as Mathews called it, a settlement was arranged,
which left him free, and enabled him at seventy years of
age to commence for the first time in his life to save
money.

RECOLLECTIONS OF CHARLES MATHEWS.

73

Another circumstance he told me during this walk
which makes me think the general report of his age at his
death to have been wrong. On the journey with his wife
to Shields, they had stopped for an hour or two in York.
He said, " I thought I would go and show my wife the
church in which I was christened. I found out the old
caretaker, and going up to the altar said, ' Dear me! it's
nearly seventy years since I was last at this altar/
' Seventy years !' said the old fellow. ' Yes/ I replied,
and began telling of things that occurred as I'd heard
them spoken of by my mother. You should have seen the
old man's amazement. I didn't undeceive him, and tell
him it was when I was christened." This conversation was
in. 1865; he died in 1878, thirteen years after, so that if he
was nearly seventy in 1865, he must have been considerably older than seventy-four when he died, allowing for a
little exaggeration on his part. I repeated the question.
" You don't mean to say you are nearly seventy ?" " Yes,
I am not far off," he replied. We must have walked nearly
ten miles, and that afternoon he started off for Liverpool,
travelled all night, and played there the Monday evening.
One thing about this time, he hardly ever rehearsed, and
the actors and actresses had to do the best they could.
In most cases, some had played with him before, but it
was terribly annoying, and to the people somewhat unfair.
I can with pleasure recall one act of good feeling on his
part which I had not experienced in other stars I could
name of equal celebrity. We were both playing in
Birmingham short starring engagements a few years after.
He was at the Royal, I at the Prince of Wales. I called
to have breakfast with him one morning, and he told me
the then stage-manager of the Royal, who was managing
an opposition theatre in Scarboro' during the summer, had

FROM LIFE.

74

not only offered him every possible inducement to leave
me, such as better terms, better company, and as he said
a larger and handsomer theatre, but had announced his
engagement. " Well," I said, " what did you do—^accept ?"
"Certainly not, Reeve; I told him to withdraw the announcement immediately, that you and I were very good
friends, you had always behaved honourably, and so long
as you had the Royal I should play nowhere else, if he
offered me double the money." This little anecdote will
show he was not deficient in fair and honourable feeling.
In 1870 he started for Australia. I was present at the
banquet given to him in Willis's rooms when he presided
so admirably. After it was over he told me he was
terribly annoyed with Mr. Sala's speech. It certainly was
an unfortunate one. Nothing could be more gratifying
than his farewell benefit at Covent Garden, and the
unanimous outburst of popular feeling at the thought of
his departure. On his return, certainly much benefited
in pocket, and apparently in health, he raised his terms, as
may be seen from the following characteristic letter:—
" Temple, Devereux Chambers, 1th May, 1873.
" M Y DEAR REEVE,

*

" You say ' yes' or ' no'—eh ? How about Scarborough ?
I have had no letter, consequently—I never move now under £100
per week, especially in the summer. If this will suit you, say so.
At liberty, Monday, 7th July. In haste, just arrived from Belfast.
" Faithfully yours,
"C.

J. MATHEWS.''

These terms were understood for the future. I remember
only one circumstance he told me worth recording in these
brief recollections, about his Australian tour. It was when
playing, I believe, in Sandhurst to one man in the dresscircle. " I acted to him," said Mathews, " all the evening.

RECOLLECTIONS OF CHARLES MATHEWS.

75

I tried to be more airy to catch the glimmer of a smile on
his face. I looked through the curtain, fearing he might
not return after the refreshment, which he evidently took
liberally. I thought of sending and offering to pay for a
bottle if he would only make a martyr of himself to see
the performance out. He did without bribery, but he
never smiled. I ventured a ' gag.' It didn't move him.
He must have been a squatter. The empty seats reminded
him of his empty, dried-up country. No doubt his brains
were dried up too. Still, he was patient, and I was grateful.
If that one man had left I should have collapsed."
After his return his attraction had revived, and he
played more profitable engagements everywhere; his
success was still further increased by his visit to India,
added to which his new comedy, My AWFUL Dad, was
fortunately a strong card for him. The following will
show how singularly successful were his engagements for
the last two or three years of his life. His son wrote to
me asking me to receive his father at Scarboro' and
Edinboro' on his return from India, to which I agreed on
the usual terms. A few weeks after I received the
following note one morning:—
" Edinboro', Waverley Hotel.
" DEAR WYBERT,

" I am here on my way to Dundee. The Scotch law decrees
passengers by train on<Sundays shall be detained for devotions ; I am
of the number. As my devotions are postponed, will you come and
see me, or shall I come and see you ? We wait your bidding ; only
don't keep us waiting long. It is important.
" Yours, on this occasion, devotionally,
"0. J. MATHEWS."

Before talking of business he told me how delighted he
had been with his trip, and more particularly with the
landing of the Prince of Wales. A long line of Indian

76

FKOM LIFE.

princes and nabobs stood on each side of the Prince's path,
gorgeous in gold and precious stones, their dresses dazzling
in the bright sun, and he described with evident pride
and amusement the surprise on their faces at seeing the
Prince of Wales all at once drop his courtly bearing, and
with a friendly smile and wave of the hand, and a sort of
"Hilloa! Mathews, how are you?" welcome the face of
the comedian, as he caught sight of it at the back of the
distinguished throng. He wanted to see me to alter the
Edinboro, terms, and instead of having his £100 certainty,
to share after £20 a night, his terms for many years
previously in that city. As he said, we had always agreed
so well, he knew I would not take advantage of a mistake
of his son's. I was awkwardly situated, as the engagement
was settled, and I was acting for others as well as for
myself. He gave me two or three days to think of it. I
made inquiries, and ascertained his engagements in Edinboro' on these terms had never given him more than £16
or £20 over the £100, and sometimes not so much, so I
agreed to cancel his terms and share after £ 2 5 ; my
theatre being finer and more expensive than any they
had previously had in the city. He came and acted, and
for the week I had to give him £199 16s. It was the
best engagement he had ever played in Edinboro', and
the receipts throughout his tour averaged the same
increase. He had fallen off in strength, and on his visit
the following season the change was very marked. His
arms were not thicker than a child's, and he complained
bitterly of the cold, but his spirits during the first visit
were as good as ever. He told me an anecdote of an actor
of great assurance, who was playing at Birmingham. The
audience didn't like him, and hissed him scene after scene
in Hamlet. At last, unable to stand it any longer, he came

RECOLLECTIONS OF CHABLES MATHEWS.

77

down to the footlights and said, "Men and women—I
scorn to flatter you with the names of ladies and gentlemen—disgusted this night, I retire for ever from the stage
(hear, hear, and cheers). You have robbed' art, you miscreants, of a brilliant genius and a gentleman (hear, hear,
and cheers). I speak in the words of the immortal bard
(hear, hear, and cheers)—I say in the words of the immortal
bard—" " Go to bed !" shouted a voice in the gallery.
" Hear, hear/' cried the crowd. " Go to the devil!"
shrieked the tragedian, and strutted off the stage.
A strange circumstance occurred during his visit to
Scarboro', showing what a small world this must be to
some people, and how little they know of it. As an actor
few names had been more before the public for many
years, and in Scarboro' he was playing his eighth engagement with me. The houses were crowded, and his name
appeared in the usual posters and bills on the walls. One
evening I had gone home with him after the performance
to have a cigar; we sat until about two in the morning.
The manager of the hotel was theatrical, and felt very
proud on having Mathews staying in his house, and had
shown a doctor of large practice and of many years'
residence into Mathews's sitting-room before he was up
in the morning. " By Jove!" said the doctor, " somebody
blowing a cloud here last night, I should say. Whose
room is this ?"
"This," replied the manager, drawing himself up, delighted with the opportunity of making the announcement,
" this is Mr. Charles Mathews's room.',
" Oh, indeed I Oh! Clever man and strong—awfully
strong."
" Strong!" said the manager, with surprise. u I never
heard of that before."

78

FROM LIFE.

" Oh, yes/' replied the doctor, " I have seen him. I
saw him twenty years ago—had a paving-stone broken
on his chest, and he lifted two 561b. weights with his teeth."
" What!" almost shrieked the manager, with indignation. " Charles Mathews have a paving-stone broken on
his chest!" and he slammed the door and left the doctor
in his ignorance, who, poor man, though all the civilized
world knew the favourite comedian, only remembered a
circus strong man of the same name seen in his boyhood.
" That man a doctor ! he's an ass," said the hotel-manager
in telling me. I heard it first from Mathews at rehearsal,
who was greatly amused. "Pick up two 561b. weights
with my teeth ! By Jove ! I could not do it now, Reeve,"
said he, pushing out his false ones.
Another anecdote occurs to me. He was rehearsing
one day, and a young man was on the stage, that I had
lately engaged for utility—educated, and of very respectable family, but exceedingly plain and somewhat useless.
All at once Mathews turned to me, " Nice youth that; I
should like to take him to India with me." It was spoken
so naturally that, very much surprised, I said, " Would
you ?" " Yes, and leave him," was his quick response.
He was a great smoker. About two years before
he died he told me he had reformed; he " d i e t e d "
himself on seven cigars a day. It appeared to be the
most expensive habit of his later life, for in all other
things he was, I believe, a very moderate man, and even
in this he certainly smoked very inexpensive cigars,
averaging about 17s. a hundred. An amusing incident
occurred with reference to this in Newcastle-on-Tyne
during a short engagement there. He was staying with
an acquaintance of mine, a Captain R
, then actingadjutant and captain to the volunteer rifles. A friend

RECOLLECTIONS OF CHARLES MATHEWS.

79

living in the town, a Mr. L
, a commissioner in the
Court of Bankruptcy, who was always eager to become
acquainted with any notability, and believed himself to
be an excellent actor, and other little vanities, but his
great fault perhaps was meanness. He liked to live as a
gentleman at as small an outlay as possible, and at the
same time was what the'Australians call a great blower.
He would not rest until he persuaded Captain R—— to
take Mathews round to breakfast. At last he consented,
and L
had a spread, as he considered, worthy of the
occasion. After breakfast L
produced a much-prized
box of cigars that he religiously kept from his ordinary
friends, and offering it to Mathews, said, "Try one of
these; you will find them very fine, very fine indeed.
You are a good judge of cigars. They cost me wholesale
9d. a piece." " Did they ?" said Mathews, smelling one,
looking at it, then lighting i t ; L
watching every
movement. "Try one of these," said Mathews, offering
his cigar-case, which L—— accepted. He took out a
cigar, looked at it, smelt it, pinched it, carefully pierced
and lit it. " A h ! " he said with satisfaction, passing the
lighted end near his nostrils to better enjoy the aroma.
"Very good; first-rate. A fine cigar; well seasoned;
full flavour/' "Very," replied Mathews, quietly; " I see
you like a good cigar." " I do," said L
. " I know the
quality directly I put it to my mouth." " Yes, I should
think so," replied Mathews, his eyes twinkling; "that
cigar cost me 2d. I bought it at a chandler's shop
round the corner." It was perfectly true; he had sent
for Is. worth that morning. Poor L had an endless
amount of chaff to endure about his choice cigars after this.
Previous to his last visit to Edinburgh, which proved his
last engagement with me, I received a letter from him—

FKOM LIFE.

80
"DEAR WYBERT,

" Jefferson tells me you gave him, and two other friends,
a delightful dinner, well cooked and served at a quiet first-rate
hotel the other day. Do you think I could stay there? My
appetite wants coaxing now, and I must have quiet. Arrange for
me if you can.
" Yours faithfully,
"C.

J. MATHEWS."

I did secure rooms for him at the hotel where I had
invited Mr. Jefferson and two or three friends to dinner;
and it was here one night, or rather morning, for it was
past one o'clock, after an oyster supper,—we had sat
smoking before the fire until it was very nearly out,—I
saw Charles Mathews for the first time in my life really
sad—so sad that I could see the tears in his eyes as he
talked over the brilliant days of his early manhood, the
society he was then familiar with, the disappointments
of his life, and the quickly coming end. " Ah, Reeve,
how changed it all is !—how many are dead !—the living,
how they have changed !—and what a dream it all seems! "
I t was a glimpse I had beneath the artificial life of
Mathews—it was the outcome of the inevitable, so swiftly
enfolding him. We sat until the fire was out.
I remember one morning finding him catching flies with
a little spirit in a wine-glass, and he showed me how to
do it. Another morning he was delighted with a small
pair of hand-tongs he had bought for half-a-crown.
" Splendid things," he said, " to take up the nubbly bits
of coal and rouse up the fire." He complained bitterly
of cold at this time.
I spoke of his generally inexpensive habits for the last
few years. He seemed to like the idea of saving money,
and was very particular in his expenditure, and often
joked about it. One night at an evening party at his

RECOLLECTIONS. OF CHARLES MATHEWS.

81

house a lady fainted. When in that state some one said,
"Bring Miss A
a glass of sherry, quick." "Don't/'
said Mathews. " I should think she had had some already."
It was deuced bad wine, and he knew it.
A marvellous instance occurred at the Gaiety Theatre,
Glasgow, of the energy and vitality that remained with
him to the last, and it was a singular proof of the
power of the mind over the body. He went to the theatre,
and had partially undressed, when he fainted away. A
doctor was immediately sent for; the house was crowded
and the manager in great trouble. On examining
Mathews, the doctor said he did not believe there was
an hour's life in him—it was quite impossible that he
could play. The audience must be dismissed. Gradually
Mathews revived, and when aware of his position told
his man to finish dressing him. The doctor protested,
and warned Mr. B.
, the manager, Mathews would to a
certainty fall dead on the stage. It was no use, he would
not hear of the audience being turned away, persisted in
dressing, and was led to the wing ready for his entrance.
The manager in a fright hastened to the front, to see the
expected calamity. " I never was in such a funk in my
life," said Mr. B
, telling me the story, " when, to my
surprise, on he came, apparently as lively as ever. I
couldn't believe it was the same man." He got through
the performance. The doctors at the end begged of him
not to smoke; his heart was in a most dangerous condition.
" Oh,* said Mathews, " if I die I must smoke." He lit a
cigar, and was driven home. The doctor and manager
consulted; it was reaction, and that he would be dead in
the morning was the conclusion they came to, so the latter
set about arranging another bill. In the morning the
blinds of the hotel were not down. Mr. B
• went
G

82

FROM LIFE,

up-stairs to Mathews's room, and there he was. "Hilloa,
B — - , did you expect to find me dead ? Not a bit of it.
See, this is what I have just finished," throwing him a
very well done little water-colour sketch.
He was to have played his usual engagement with me
in September; he died in Manchester in June. There was
something inexpressibly sad when I heard of the crowd at
the cemetery in Kensal Green, waiting to see the last of
the coffin holding all that remained of that vivacious spirit,
that well-known and popular comedian. A lady told me
the coffin looked like that of a young girl, and seemed as
light. I can very well believe it. Planche was there,
and he said, in describing it to me with tears in his eyes,
how great the sorrow was to him! " It seems strange,
Reeve, I should be left behind." But it was hot for long,
poor old fellow; he quickly followed his friend of many
years.
To him I am indebted for the following:—The
morning before Mathews died, the doctor had left the
room, and the waiter was standing by his bedside.
Mathews, thinking he was the doctor, took his hand, and
said, speaking very slowly and weakly, "God bless you,
doctor, you have done your best. Thank you. It's all
over. It's
" Looking up and discovering who it was,
in one instant the quick voice and manner returned as
he said, " Why, damme, it's the waiter," and fell back on
his pillow* At the last he insisted on smoking, a thing he
had not done and been forbade to do for some days. Mrs.
Mathews at length lit him a cigar, with the promise he
was to take only a few puffs. The promise was fulfilled ;
he soon quietly passed away.

SIDELIGHTS FROM THE PULPIT.
IN the opening of this paper I am tempted to moralize
a little. Professors of various denominations teach, according to their lights, the great mystery of man and his
Maker, and I venture to suggest the best of lights is little
better than darkness. It reminds me very much of children
looking up to the stars and planets, and struggling to
penetrate the light beyond. Apostles arise of new ideas or
old creeds, now, as they have risen in the generations past.
Old faiths and new doctrines are taught as divine laws,
until in the minds of many science or common-sense
steps in and destroys the argument, and people quarrel now,
as in time past, over words and meanings that often have
no warranty in the old Scriptures, which they pretend to
understand. So spite, envy, and all uncharitableness run
riot, whilst men and women stand doubting and perplexed.
Why do so many preachers play out the same old tune,
as though knowledge, like themselves, had stood still, and
the old Judsean records were universally accepted as Godgiven and inspired ? We hear a text from the average
preacher, and know perfectly well what we are to expect,
the firstly, secondly, thirdly, the same hackneyed phrases,
the same platitudes, until attending church or chapel to-

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FROM LIFE,

the many is a disagreeable duty, and nine out of every ten
in a congregation could neither tell you the text nor the
argument half an hour afterwards.
It would be different if clergymen would cease to give
lame and impotent explanations of mysteries they do not
like to acknowledge they are as ignorant about as ourselves ; or if they would cease to make assertions for which
they too often have no authority; if they would only try
and be original, forgetting for a time the Israelites of old,
and remembering the thoughtful men and women of to-day.
How much better to gather the texts from the life around,
and not befog weak minds with a labyrinth of doctrine!
How much better to teach us how to be better men and
women, proving by their own lives that they believe in the
Christian charity they preach; that mere difference of
faith or creed is nothing! So long as men and women are
banded together in all honesty to do good works, they are
equally to be admired and respected.
Men teaching a higher moral law, compelling thought,
and following up the intellectual evidences of the day,
could no longer be recruited from the nonentities and
fossils who crowd into the present system. The old reproach, " He's the fool of the family; well make a parson
of him," could no longer apply, and degrade a noble calling.
So ends my catechism.
These reflections bring me to the singular outcomings of
modern theology, and perhaps the most singular is the
fashionable preacher. Probably no better example could
be found than the late Rev. Robert Montgomery, or, as he
was called after one of his poems, " Satan " Montgomery.
Sunday after Sunday he drew crowds to his chapel, near
Tottenham-court-road, and elsewhere in London.
If I remember rightly the chapel was hired by him, as a

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85

theatre would be. People paid for their seats in the usual
way, and by collections at each service, it brought him a
large income. " Satan " ran through several editions, and
another of his long poems, "The Omnipresence of the
Deity," eleven editions. Yet his name, like the actor's
fame, would now be " heard no more " but for the scathing
and remorseless criticism in Macaulay's famous essays.
The popularity of Montgomery and his poems suggests to
him the story of the Sanscrit iEsop of a pious Brahmin,
who set forth to find a sheep to offer up for sacrifice. He
met a rogue by the way, who offered him an unclean beast
—an ugly dog—lame and blind, and swore it was a sheep
of the finest fleece and sweetest flesh. The Brahmin indignantly refused it, and said it was no sheep. A second
rogue appears, and swears to it. Still the pious Brahmin
doubts, but when a third rogue appears and vows the same,
the Brahmin is convinced, contrary to his own good sense,
and says, i( The gods had taken away his senses.,, He asks
pardon of the first rogue for doubting him, and buys the
dog, giving a measure of rice and a pot of ghee; he sacrifices the dog to the gods, who, in wrath at this unclean
sacrifice, smote him with a sore disease in his joints. The
public represent the Brahmin, Montgomery the rogue, his
works the unclean dog. Could satire be more terrible ?
I t had its effect, and was the first and strongest step in
the downfall of his popularity, and, I believe, hastened his
death. Macaulay, in speaking of him, complains of the
spirit of the age, which accepted the puffery with which
he, like a good showman, pushed his. poems and his
preaching into notoriety. He says—"All the pens that
ever were employed in magnifying Bish's lucky office,
Romaine's fleecy hosiery, Packwood's razor-strops, and
Rowland's Kalydor, all the placard-bearers of Dr. Eady, all

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86

the wall-chalkers of Day and Martin's blacking, seem to
have taken service with the poets and novelists of this
generation. . . . The rabble first stare and wonder, and at
last join in shouting for shouting's sake, and thus a crown
is placed on a head which has no right to it." Thus
"Montgomery's works have received more enthusiastic
praise, and have deserved more unmixed contempt." He
shows how coolly he appropriates from others; for instance,
Lord Byron writes in his magnificent address to the
ocean—
" Time writes no wrinkle on thine azure brow."

Montgomery re-dresses this image—
c<

Time's iron feet can print no ruin-trace."

Sir Walter Scott has the beautiful lines—
" The dew that on the violet lies
Marks the dark lustre of thine eyes."

Montgomery steals it—
"And the bright dew-bead on the bramble lies,
Like liquid rapture upon beauty's eyes/

As a preacher, I was attracted to him, and with a boyish
friend have stood for hours outside his chapel-doors in the
crowd. He affected Lord Byron a good deal in his person,
and I think this had an additional charm for many. He
had somewhat feminine, well-cut features, close-shaven
face, dark curly hair parted in the centre, looked pale
and interesting, had bright expressive eyes, and a sort of
general resemblance to the poet. He preached with fervour, using a good deal of action and high-flown language,
drawing strong and, as I thought as a youngster, very
poetical similes, but which I dare say had as little meaning
and as bad grammar as Macaulay found in his poetry.

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87

At times he descended to the commonplace, and said
things that startled you, and it was one of these that en~
tirely disenchanted me, young as I was, and made such an
impression that I never troubled to<hear him after.
In speaking of the dead and resurrection, he likened
humanity to a decayed Stilton cheese, mildewed and
crumbled to pieces, and as the particles of the cheese
would unite into a whole by pressing, and regain its former
consistency, so the dust of man on the last day would be
collected by the trumpets of the angels. Resurrection and
a Stilton cheese was too much for my youthful mind. Anything more absurd than such a simile could hardly be
imagined, but it was a sort of thing that answered with
the many; the very daring of it attracted. Fashion at last
failed him, and disappointment hastened his death.
Another fashionable preacher, I dare say, will be remembered by most English readers, the Rev. J. M. Bellew. He,
like Montgomery, was essentially a pulpit actor and ladies'
man, following his profession for money and popularity.
In the height of Bellew's fame it was difficult to obtain a
seat to hear him, and when he succeeded in getting a
divorce from his wife, who had absconded with another
man in India, the sympathy of the ladies knew no bounds.
He was very fond of the stage, and in his early days acted
small parts with Macready at Drury-lane, under the name
of Higgins, and this, I believe, was his real name. It was
said Fechter's Hamlet, which7 made such a remarkable
sensation in the theatrical world, was to an extent Bellew's;
he coached him in it. The first time I met him was in the
beautiful Mrs, Rousby's dressing-room at the Queen's
Theatre, London. She was playing in a piece called Axe
and Crown; it was the talk of London at the time, more
because of her beauty than her acting. Bellew and one of

88

FROM LIFE.

the Mayliews were also "present, and both were lavish in
their attentions to her. The next time was at a performance by the same lady of Eosalind in As You Like It,
in the green-room of a provincial theatre. He was then
fulsome in his praise to the lady of a very bad performance,
and a very imperfect one, and no one knew better than
Bellew that it was so. It was in the same town I heard
him conduct the church service, for the first and only time,
and I never heard the prayers so beautifully given or so
impressively. His sermon, too, was excellent, his appearance all that could be desired to give effect both to his
reading and preaching. He had a fine face, rather long
hair, almost white, graceful action, and a manner and
voice that commanded attention, the latter being especially
good in its tones for elocutionary effect.
Like Montgomery, he had rented a church near Holborn,
and drew a large income from it, and I think it was over
this he and his bishop disagreed; but the first downfall to
his immense popularity with the ladies was his marrying
a lady who, like himself, had been divorced. Although
the fault was not on her side, the fact was not overlooked,
as many of his congregation were supposed to regard the
circumstance with jealous eyes, the single ones more
especially. He also got into money difficulties, and
finally renounced the Church of England for the Church
of Eome. Disappointed in this, he turned to public reading for a livelihood, in which he had already succeeded.
A speculator for some time gave him £10 a reading,
took him to all likely towns for one, two, or three nights,
incurring all responsibility, and I believe it paid very well.
At length Bellew thought he had discovered a means of
indulging in his theatrical proclivities without going on
the stage. He took St. George's Hall, London; had the

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89

most perfect bijou scenery painted for the tragedy of
Samlet by O'Connor and other London artists, got a
complete set of dresses, and engaged a competent company
of actors and actresses, and the result was the most singular exhibition any one could imagine. He stood in front,
at a desk, with a large volume of Shakespeare before him,
and read every character. The actors and actresses came on
and off, crossed, did all the regular business of their parts,
and gesticulated, opening their mouths as if speaking the
words; in short, they were living automatons; it was
supremely ridiculous. E. A. Sothern (the celebrated
Dundreary), who was playing in London at the time,
suggested to me we should invite the actor who did
the ghost to dinner, and try our utmost to make him
unsteady with wine, as Bellew solemnly reading in front,
and a ghost with the staggers behind, would have completed the absurdity; however, we could not arrange it.
As may be supposed, the entertainment was a disastrous
failure.
No man knew better how to pose on a platform and
catch the public by little tricks—his walk, the throwing
back his hair, swelling out his chest, pulling down his
shirt-cuffs (there is a great deal even in blowing your nose
to make it effective, and he had the knack). He looked
round with a kind of " I am here ; attention." He would
pause at the slightest noise, stop at the entrance of any
late-comers until they were seated, when all eyes would
turn upon the unfortunates with reproof. I heard him
once read at Swansea, in Wales, when he made the
unfortunate mayor of the town move to the very verge
of the platform, with the excuse he wanted more room.
The mayor told me the next morning he never felt so
uncomfortable in his life,

90

FKOM LIFE.

I was staying at the Westminster Hotel, New York, the
end of 1873, with Wilkie Collins, and we were talking
after dinner in the same room Charles Dickens occupied
when there. Bellew came in to say " good-bye." . He was
returning to England after his second and not very successful reading tour. He talked like a man in ill-health,
and with broken spirit. They recalled pleasant memories
of days spent with Dickens and other well-known men,
and jovial gatherings ; and with a promise of meeting us
in London, he said " good-bye." Shortly after his arrival
in England he died, and the few friends who remained to
him paid the expenses of the funeral. So ended what
should have been a brilliant and most useful career.
Before dying he suggested his own epitaph — sadly
significant—
]
" Oh, pity me, ye my friends,"

I t was the outcome of a wounded spirit, mourning over
lost opportunities and a wasted life.
James Guthrie, the Scotch preacher, was a man of a
very different type to either of the foregoing, and a most
popular man in his day.. He was extremely eloquent, and
his appearance gave great weight to his words—he was
very fond of finding bis illustrations in the action or
appearance of the sea, in calm and storm—and one of
the queries in Punch was, " What would Dr. Guthrie do
if the sea ran dry ? " On one occasion I was attending a
lecture of his in the great Free-trade Hall, Manchester.
The lecture turned on the temperance question, and he
drew a vivid picture of the drunkard's home—the dying
wife, the starving children. " Is he alone guilty ?" asked
Guthrie. " No—no—I denounce equally the dealer in
the accursed drink—the trafficker in human poison, not
pnly to tbe body, but to the soul of man. There shall be

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91

a curse upon the man who grows rich on the ruin of his
brothers and sisters—yes! a bitter reckoning when he
stands before his God." The chairman on the occasion
was Alderman Mackie, at that time about the largest
owner of public-houses and seller of the " poison" in the
city; he was " a gross, fat man," and I never saw any one
look more uncomfortable, wriggling about, not knowing
where to look. Of course it was thoroughly enjoyed by
the audience, and I dare say Dr. Guthrie felt a little
uncomfortable when he learnt the trade of the chairman
who had introduced him with such flattering words.
I saw a strange sidelight thrown upon Gavazzi, the
great Italian orator, ex-priest, and companion of Garibaldi
—a florid but eloquent and effective speaker. It was
conducted with the grandest church service I ever heard,
and took place in the cathedral of St. Mark's, Venice.
The church in itself is one of the most interesting, I think,
in the world. There was an array of cardinals, archbishops, bishops, and priests—such brilliant colouring, such
a wealth of gold, silver, and precious stones. It was some
great church festival; incense filled the cathedral, gorgeous
banners waved, the sun streamed through the old stainedglass windows, and fell upon the marbles in crimson,
purple, and gold; the then newly-married King of Italy
and his wife looked down from the royal stall; the finest
singers in Italy were engaged to join in the mass and
service. The preliminaries over, an old cardinal ascended
the pulpit, supported by other dignitaries of the church,
and he anathematized Gavazzi. I had noticed the excommunication affixed to the church-doors on entering. From
the venerable old cardinal's excessive gestures, I should
say he was delivering a good, strong, healthy curse on the
apostate's head,.

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FROM LIFE.
' He cursed him in sleeping", that every night
He should dream of the devil and wake in fright;
He cursed him in eating, he cursed him in drinking;
He cursed him in coughing, in sneezing, in winking ;
He cursed him in sitting, in standing, in lying;
He cursed him in walking, in riding, in flying ;
He cursed him in living, he cursed him in dying;
Never was heard such a terrible curse.
But what gave rise to no little surprise,
Nobody seemed one penny the worse 1"

Gavazzi certainly did not. I met him the next day; he
was rather pleased at the distinction it gave him. Only
the other day he died at the age of eighty.
In writing of foreign priests, nothing can exceed the
dirt, greed, and lying of some of the hungry-looking
wretches who swarm about the churches and mosques of
the Eastern cities. They grab at money as hungry dogs
seize and quarrel over a bone, I don't know what qualifications are required for the priestly order with the Moslems
—ugliness might be one, greed another. They sell their
souls for a little money. No " Christian dog " is allowed
to enter their mosques on their Sabbath. It was necessary
for myself and friends in Constantinople to see St. Sophia
on that day. " Backsheesh," with a great deal of haggling
over the price, opened the doors of their consciences and
the church, and we were smuggled up to the galleries of
this magnificent temple by half a dozen priests, who tormented us with importunities to buy pieces of the mosaic
they had sacrilegiously stolen from the walls. I wanted to
see the dancing dervishes, and was informed by the doorkeeper I must enter their temple with naked feet, which I
objected to, but I saw by a knowing twinkle in the old
priest's eyes there was an easy way of getting over'it. I
gave him " backsheesh/' and he drew out a dirty old mat

S I D E L I G H T S FKOM T H E PULPIT.*

&3

from under him, on which I wiped my boots, and eased his
conscience at the same time. What an extraordinary exhibition to see some two dozen human beings in petticoats
and high hats turning round like so many teetotums to
the monotonous drone of an old priest squatted in the
circle, and the tum-tumming of a child's drum and two
or three] penny whistles! What a funny way to serve
God and the Prophet! What an extraordinary sidelight
of a religious worship for men endowed with reason to
contemplate !
By the way, the last time I heard Dr. Parker at the
Holborn Viaduct Church he reminded me of these dervishes. Not that he turned or danced, but his antics were
very peculiar. He was first one side of the pulpit, then
the other, leant over until it was doubtful if he could recover his balance, and bobbed up and down like a Jack-inthe-box. His peculiarities of manner had greatly increased
since I first heard him in Manchester. I then thought
him an eloquent and impressive preacher. A young,
innocent, enthusiastic, and clever girl, a friend of mine, became infatuated with his preaching, and regularly attended
his services. Her religious thoughts had been very unsettled, and she wrote to him asking for an interview. He
had the bad taste to misinterpret her motives, and his wife
had the equally bad taste to call on the girl, and lecture
her in a most uncalled-for and imprudent manner. I
never saw a girl more surprised or hurt, and I never knew
her enter a church afterwards.
Dr. Parker was an admirer and defender of Ward
Beecher, and there was something strongly akin in the two
men, only I think the Rev. Ward Beecher was by far the
abler. Going to his church was like going to a popular
pantomime at a theatre on Boxing Night—I never saw

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FROM LIFE*

such a crowd or struggle at a church-door before. He had an
imposing and florid style, strong and manly, more robust
and more refined than either Parker or Spurgeon, but resembling the former in his excessive gesticulation at times,
and his constant study of effect. He walked on the platform with the tread of a tragedian. His lady admirers
surrounded him with flowers—on each of my visits he
preached amid a rich garden of colour. He wore a cloak
such as Hamlet Swears in the churchyard scene. He
managed to let this fall gracefully from his shoulders over
the back of his chair. The gas-like sidelights were
directed full upon him. He talked well and to the point;
there was no hesitation, and his strong and well-cultured
voice reached every part of the church. On reading the
account of the Tilton scandal, when he defied the skill of
the most accomplished lawyers at the American bar, and
bearded them and their cross-examination for days without
flinching, with his reputation and the life of the church at
stake, I could understand it, on looking at his powerful
head and a face with a will of iron. There was to me one
thing wanting in him, however—conviction, thorough
earnestness, soul, or whatever else you like to call it.
Spurgeon is often called the Beecher of England—no
doubt they both held wonderful power over their congregations—but I believe the former is a thoroughly conscientious, good man—perfectly honest in his opinions, and
acting up to them, however much we may differ from him,
That the Rev. Henry Ward Beecher was equally honest, I
think is doubtful. I heard Spurgeon for the first time at
Cardiff in Wales. He came there to preach for the funds
of a new chapel. No building in the town was expected to
be large enough to accommodate his hearers, so a rather
high platform was erected in a field; a large space was then

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95

enclosed by hurdles, with hundreds of chairs inside, for
which half-a-crown was to be charged. Outside the
hurdles, where you could not hear, was one shilling. The
half-crownites were few and far between—perhaps a dozen
—but there were hundreds of shillingites, myself and wife
amongst the number. Some one opened with prayer, and
was interrupted by shouts of " Speak up/' " Give it mouth,"
&c. Mr. Spurgeon, fearing a disturbance from the outsiders,
and seeing so much empty space unoccupied, made a virtue
of necessity, and addressing his " Christian friends/' bade
them all come forward to hear the word of God. A rush
was made, down went the hurdles, and the crowd had
possession of the chairs. A gentleman who had paid his
half-crown got up on the one he occupied and denounced
the proceedings in strong terms—saying it was little better
than a swindle—at which there was some uproar. Spurgeon came forward and calmed it, and in his oiliest manner
said—" If my dear brother grudges his half-crown in the
service of the Lord, let him come upon this platform and I
will return him his money." He was too wise a man, but
I felt my sleeve pulled, and, looking down, saw a toothless
old lady at my side, who, looking up, said, " Oh, sir, ain't
that like Jesus?" As the man had certainly been done
out of his half-crown accommodation, I must confess I
could not see it. A pouring rain came down before the
service was half over, and a rush was made for the shelter
of the platform. As I was standing near I fortunately was
among the first to get it. In a short time the place was
crowded, and just as they were singing " Nearer, my God,
to Thee," a prize-fighter, the Welsh champion of the light
weights, seeing my wife inconveniently crowded, cleared the
people from pressing on her, with " D—• your eyes, if yer
gents behave as sich"—and other strong language

96

FEOM LIFE.

certainly not at all in keeping with the hymn. Little of
the service could be heard, and the meeting was postponed
for one in the evening in a large hall or chapel; we dispersed after receiving a blessing, 'which I am afraid was
not altogether appreciated—certainly not by the gallant
champion light-weight.
The next time I heard him was at his Tabernacle, after
waiting an hour in the crowd to gain entrance. The huge
building was crammed, and the effect of the singing of the
hymns was undoubtedly grandly imposing. He struck
me as a clever, shrewd, honest man, with a great deal of
common sense, and considerable eloquence of a certain
kind—great aptness in catching the attention of the multitude by original and commonplace similes which they can
thoroughly understand. He never rises above the ordinary
intelligence of his hearers, and it seemed to me a pity
he sometimes mars his work by such abrupt metaphor, and
illustrations so far below the dignity of his subject. However, I certainly believe he has done more good than half
the preachers in London.
I could not help contrasting the marvellous difference of
opinion which may exist between ministers of the Church
of England in two men. The first was in the cathedral,
Londonderry—Bishop Alexander. The sermon was a very
scholarly one, very liberal, and most impressively delivered.
He spoke of the Bible as a translation, with doubtless
many errors—it was a book to be followed in spirit not in
letter. He referred to the advance of science and the discovery of ancient relics of the earliest ages and earliest
races as tending to enlarge the mind and raise the
grandeur of the Infinite. A fortnight afterwards I was in
Carlisle Cathedral listening to a sermon by Dean Close,
He said every line—every word—of the Bible was inspired

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97

by God—there could be no error. He believed in eternal
damnation and the hell prepared for unbelievers. He did
not believe in the advance of scientific discoveries, they led
to ungodliness; most of the theories of science were merely
speculative; in the Bible alone was truth, and if he wanted
any solution of doubts or difficulties he looked into his
Bible, and there he found them. What a lucky man ! It
was amazing to hear a sane man in the present age preach
such doctrines.
There are sidelights sometimes to be thrown on
Unitarians. I heard one of the greatest religious rows
in Belfast I ever heard in my life. The question was,
should Theodore Parker's works be admitted into the
Unitarian library ? The congregation, headed by Dr.
Porter, said " N o ; " the liberals, headed by a very good
friend of mine, the Rev. H. Street, said " Yes." The two
congregations had churches next door to each other. The
meeting was in a large hall; it opened with prayer and
peace, but before an hour the storm raged, and it continued
hour after hour. Women grew as excited as the men. A
division was called for—" Yes " to go on one side of the
hall, " No " on the other. The gentleman who had prayed
for humiliation and humbleness of spirit was the most
bitter in his language of all present. Votes of censure
were called for, against half the men on the platform.
Half a dozen were talking at the same time. At four
o'clock in the morning the war still raged. Then came a
vote of censure on the unfortunate chairman because he
did not keep order. He was speechless from exhaustion.
I am very sorry to say about half-past four the
" Noes" had it by a slight majority, and so the meeting
ended.
H

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. FKOM LIFE.

Among the many Unitarians I have met, I must place
with the foremost the Rev. Robert CoUyer, late of Chicago,
now of New York, He is one of the representative men
of America. Passing his youth at Ilkley, near Bolton
Abbey, as a blacksmith and lay Baptist preacher, a young
man he emigrated to America, and gave up the smithy
for the chapel. His views broadening with experience
and education, he joined the Unitarians, and became one
of their great lights in America. He had a beautiful
church in Chicago; the one previous to my visit was
burnt down in the great fire. He preached on the ruins
of the church, and after the sermon. 70,000 dollars were
subscribed on the spot to commence a new one, aiid one
gentleman became responsible for Mr. Collyer's salary at
the rate of over £1000 a year until it was rebuilt. His
published sermons prove him to be a master of pure
English and composition. I cannot refrain from giving a
short illustration from his sermon ' What a Leaf Said':—
" You rejoice in your fruit; if there had been no leaf,
there could have been no fruit, and there would be no
tree. The servant of all, I am, in my way, the greatest
of all, by the infallible ordination and law of all service.
I give you walnut for your gun-stock, and ash for the
handle of your plough, I work through all weathers to
build your ships, factories, homes, and churches. I am
indispensable to the match for your fire and the mast for
your merchantman. I brace myself and stand shoulder to
shoulder with my fellows on great pines, keeping watch
and ward in the long winter, on every coigne of vantage,
to keep you from the driving northern storms, and spread
myself as a shield over valley and champaign, to shield you
from the burning summer heats. I cast my mantle over

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the rain-drop, until it can find a rivulet; and the rivulet
I shelter to the river, and the river to the sea. I cover
the springs among the moss, and weave my tapestry to
adorn the bare desolation of the mountains. I hold
myself, simple and separate, always to my own purpose,
and now in my falling I shall fall for blessing, and cease
to be as a leaf. I am no longer needed." The lesson of
the sermon is, if we are as fruit, to keep as sound as we
can to the core. He continues, later on—" But, if I am
not fruit, then I am leaf, and leaf is fruit in its own order.
Do I cast a mite of shadow; do I beautify ever so small
a piece of blank barrenness; do I help along, in the
measure of my one-leaf power, in forming, if not fruit, then
timber ? Because, this question answered right, I have
answered every other/' Surely the mind of every listener
to words such as these must realize his own individual
responsibility and the divinity surrounding his existence
more than in a thousand of the ordinary dry-as-dust
doctrinal sermons we are unfortunately bound to listen to.
After finishing my professional engagement in Chicago
I stayed with him a fortnight, and a very pleasant time
it was. In the evening, over a cigar and a glass of
wine or lager beer, he would tell me quaint stories of his
life, or stories that he had heard. I will repeat one,
although it wants his strong vernacular to give it point.
" In a small village in Yorkshire, at the junction of a river
and a canal, there lived a wicked old bargeman. The
Wesleyans, Baptists, and Methodists had all prayed,
worried, and striven for the old rascal's conversion, but in
vain, he was set down as incorrigible. One Sunday
morning news came to the chapels that Bob had had a
call in the night from the Lord, and he was waiting on

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FROM LIFE.

the barge for all chapel folks to hasten and assist at his
conversion. The news arrived during service, and the
parsons gave forth the joyful news and called upon their
flocks to hasten as soon as the service was over to rejoice
over ' t h e lost one saved from the furnace.' Baptists,
Methodists, and Wesleyans followed their pastors. The
barge was found with its nose stuck deep in the shore
mud, the after part afloat. Incorrigible Bob was found
dressed in his Sunday clothes, and his mate the same,
both with hymn-books in their hands. As the flocks
arrived they were received on board by the two, and
passed to the after part of the barge.** There was a slight
dispute as to who should have the first prayer. The
Methodist began, then Bob called for a hymn with a good
'Hallelujah' chorus. This was quickly responded to.
Bob's excitement and fervour imparted itself to the whole
congregation; they danced with joy over the converted
sinner. Gradually the barge lifted its nose out of the
mud, and by the time the hymn was over it was afloat
again, when, to the amazement of all, Bob flung down his
book. ' Stop, stop the rantin'. I'll ha' no more o' this o'
my barge; thou'st converted my barge out o' the mud,
now thou mun all go to the devil. Skedaddle, or I'll be
parson, and baptize thee all in the river.' They did not
wait for Bob to carry out his threat, but shepherds and
flocks scrambled off the barge, and in future left the old
sinner in his wickedness."
I must turn on the sidelights to the most primitive
service I ever attended—at a Unitarian Church, far away
in the mountains of Caermarthenshire, Wales. I went
with a friend practising as a physician in Swansea on a
short visit to his mother, who lived on a small estate that

SIDELIGHTS FROM THE PULPM.

101

had been in the family for several centuries. It was a
strange, out-of-the-way place. The house stood on the
slope of a mountain, looking up a grand valley, with a
most unpronounceable name. After leaving a picturesque
and circuitous railway, winding round hills by the side of
streams, over valleys, and on the brink of small precipices,
we arrived at an old world village, where a horse awaited
us. We 4ook turns on this, and so arrived some miles
away at our journey's end. On the Sunday morning we
rode down to the village, two miles away, to attend service
in a large, white-washed, barn-like place, called a chapel.
We were a little late, and on entering, my friend, who
had long been the lord of the district, was welcomed
with looks and nods from about a hundred Welsh worshippers. They looked on me with infinite surprise, for a
stranger was an unheard-of thing amongst them. The
men were separated from the women, the former in
Sunday costume, mostly old blue, short-waisted, highcollared coats, looking like heirlooms in the family; the
rest had smocks on, rather elaborately worked. The
women had the usual bright petticoats and shawls, and
the greatly-prized high hat, with beautifully clean white
caps—all looking wonderfully fresh and wholesome, some
very pretty faces amongst them too, with bright dark eyes,
which I must confess attracted my attention at first more
than the service that was going on. My friend walked to
his seat of honour, a Windsor chair under the pulpit,
before a small deal kitchen-table, which served for the
altar. One man led the singing, with a very loud voice,
and a, monotonous beat of the foot and hand. I was
directed to a pew between two farmers, who annoyed me
all the service by constantly expectorating, until a, small

102

FROM LIFE.

stream was running at my feet. When the hymn had
finished, the doctor walked up the pulpit-stairs and spoke
to the preacher, after heartily shaking hands. He was a
weather-worn and kindly-looking old man, who smiled
and nodded to me (evidently the object of the conversation) a welcome. The lessons began—the whole service
was in Welsh—and then the object of the little talk
between the preacher and the doctor was apparent.
Every now and then the preacher paused and explained
to me in English what he was talking or reading about—
to the no small amusement of the congregation, and the
great embarrassment of myself, for all eyes were at once
turned on me. This continued through the service, even
in the prayers. Before the sermon the old man seemed
to be uneasy, and after giving out the first verse of the
hymn, passed the book over to the doctor to go on with it.
He then descended, took down his coat, hanging on a
nail in the wall, and from out an old box took a pinch of
snuff, then lustily blew his nose. This little ceremony
over, he returned to his place in the pulpit. It was
Sacrament Sunday. A little common pewter mug was
taken out of a box under the table, and a pewter-plate;
some bread was broken, something was put into the mug,
and it was handed round; in return, a little money was
given. I was about to subscribe, when the old preacher
prevented me, saying I was a stranger, and welcome to
the blessing without paying for it. On arrival outside
there was an immense deal of shaking hands with my
friend, and a wonderful gabbling in Welsh, with an evident
anxiety to know who and what I was. Then I was
introduced, and had to undergo a similar greeting to the
doctor. This over, we retired to one of the few cottages

SIDELIGHTS FBOM THE PULPIT.

103

of the village to wait for the horses. The reader will
have seen the interiors painted by Dutch artists—the
great chimney, with its bacon hanging and drying fish;
the old settee by the fire, the earthen floor, and rude
roof-beams with strings of onions and other edibles suspended from them; the huge kettle, odd crockery about,
and clumsy wooden table and chairs. It was a realization
of just such an old Dutch interior. I sat down on a form
near a blazing log fire, for it was very cold, and called for
some whisky. The old preacher came in, and I asked
him to join me; he had a mug of beer, took from his
waistcoat-pocket a paper screw of tobacco, from his
trousers-pocket a well-seasoned short clay pipe, filled it,
and then sat at his ease for a little enjoyment. He had
never been outside the mountains, except once to Liverpool
to see his son off to America. It was the great event of
his life, and in seeing Liverpool he seemed to think he
had seen the world, but he had another world—a world
of poets and writers. He could talk of Shakespeare f
Milton, Coleridge, Byron, or Tennyson; of the philosophy
of Carlyle and Mill; the theology of Kant or Colenso; or
on the great questions of the day. Of real everyday life
he knew very little, but of the life of literature he knew
enough to surprise me. His mind seemed a strange
rough uncut gem full of knowledge set in uncouth surroundings, and he was evidently an honest thinker and
doer, according to his lights, which is more than can be
said of many of the self-righteous, noisy, ignorant ranters
who obstruct our thoroughfares, lead our Salvation Armies,
and otherwise bring contempt on religious life. I take
the hero and writer of the following epitaph, which I
copied from a tombstone in Reading Cemetery, to be
specimens of this class:—

FROM LIFE.

104

" Waiting for Immortality to be
Swallowed up of Life,
Sleeps the Ransomed Dust of
JOHN POYNELLS,
Many Years a Bearer of Tidings to the
Flock of Slaughter,
And a Correspondent of the ' Gospel Magazine,'
Under the Signature of a ' Stripling.'
Amidst many mercies, the nipping winds
Of the wilderness effected their appointed purpose,
And the corruptible retired to put on incorruptible.
And the spirit returned to God, who gave it,
The 23rd of November, 1866, in the 74th Year of his Age."

Or the humorous gentleman who advertises his wife's
confinement in the Liverpool Daily Post, from which paper
I copied it:—
"BIRTHS.
DOWLING.—December 22nd, at his mundane abode, 25 Fore-street,
off Exmouth-street, Birkenhead, the wife of Abraham John
Dowling, preacher of the Gospel, late an unsentenced prisoner
in Chester Castle for preaching the Gospel, of a son and heir,
by the mother side, who is Elizabeth, third and only daughter
of the late Captain William Williams, of Liverpool and Dublin.
Thanks be ascribed to the name of the Lord Jesus Christ, man's
only Saviour! Blessed be His most Holy name. The suffering
mother and son have been brought through the furnace, and are
both doing well. Bless the Lord ! This child making the third
arduous though at length happy delivery. Hallelujah! Praise
the Lord. Amen and amen."

Old Fuller says—
" Trust not him that seems a saint"

Who would trust the writer of the above ? To all such
preachers and saints I commend Peter Pindar's lines—not
" To wear long faces, just as if our Maker,
The God of Goodness*, was an undertaker,
Well pleased to wrap the soul's unlucky mien,'
In sorrow's dismal crape or bombasin."

PERSONAL RECOLLECTIONS OF WILKIE
COLLINS.
I HAD played John Mildmay during a short revival of
Still Waters Bun Deep, at the Lyceum Theatre, London,
and for six months in two of my own comedies at the
Charing Cross, now Toole's Theatre, and had gone back
into the country, when I received a telegram from London
proposing the part of Walter Heartright for me, in a new
play to be produced at the Olympic Theatre, by Wilkie
Collins, The Woman' in White. I accepted the proposal,
and attended the first reading of the drama by Mr. George
Vining, who was cast for Count Fosco. I t lasted over
two hours and a half, but the play, though long, struck
me as being clever, original, and effective. The rehearsals
commenced the next day, and the second morning Mr.
Wilkie Collins attended—a short, moderately thick-set
man, with beard, moustache, and whiskers slightly tinged
with white; a bent figure, caused by suffering; a full,
massive, very clever head and forehead; and bright,
intellectual eyes, looking out of strong eye-glasses mounted
in gold. He asked to be introduced to me, and an
acquaintance then commenced which ripened, into strong
friendship, only ending with his death.

106

FROM LIFE.

They were terrible rehearsals, tiresome in the extreme,
from ten o'clock in the morning until five o'clock in the
afternoon—sometimes from six or seven o'clock in the
evening to one and two o'clock in the morning. Endless
arguments arose about crossing the stage, the position
of the several characters, of a chair, a sofa, or a table.
The two ladies—the one playing Anne Catherick and
doubling Lady Glyde, the other Marion Halcombe—had
a little difference of opinion. Neither liked to give
way to the other. On a question of whether both could
not keep their faces to the audience at the same time
during the recognition scene in the Lunatic Asylum the
discussion lasted over an hour on one occasion. Mr.
Vining should at once have directed the business and
insisted on it, but he was a bad stage-manager. Wilkie
Collins looked ''perplexed in the extreme," not knowing
which side to take, but he was gentlemanly, patient, and
good-tempered, always ready for a smile if a chance
offered itself, or a peaceful word, kindly suggesting something when a point was to be gained. I marvelled at
him, for authors as a rule are the reverse of patient when
their own pieces are rehearsing. They naturally form
their own conception of characters they have created, and
object to have their ideas differently interpreted by the
actor or actress. The difficulties were got through, and
the 9th of October was the eventful night of the production
of the play. It was a great success. At the end of the
third act there was a loud call for the author, and Collins,
after a good deal of trouble, was induced to appear before
the curtain and respond to it. He was suffering a good
deal from nervous anxiety. To my surprise the two ladies
were waiting for him at the wing, each anxious to be
taken on, and to allow the other no advantage. He was

PERSONAL RECOLLECTIONS OF WILKIE COLLINS. 10?
wise, no doubt; although the call was his, he marched
them both on before the curtain.
The newspapers pronounced it the best drama, and the
most interesting one written of late years, and likely to be
the forerunner of a new and better school. There was a
divided opinion as to the merit of Mr. Vining's Count
Fosco, at which he was greatly enraged, and foolishly
advertised both the good and bad notices side by side,
calling attention in a rather egotistical, unwise, and
certainly offensive manner to the opposite opinion of the
critics. It did both the piece and his acting far more
harm than good. " Wise men know well enough " it's no
use fighting with the press. Before the piece had played
a fortnight I was exceedingly surprised by the management asking me to be studied in the part of " Fosco/'
There were some doubts with regard to Mr. Vining, it was
necessary to be prepared, and Mr. Collins had said either
I must play the' part, should anything occur, or Mr.
Fechter must be engaged. The latter was an impossibility, so there was nothing for it but for me to set to
work. I t was not until January 11th Mr. Vining suddenly
broke down from cold and a bad throat, and at a day's
notice I had to go on, fortunately for me with a very
satisfactory result. On the 24th of February the piece
was withdrawn, and Mr. Vining immediately started with
a company for the provinces. I followed with another.
This brought me into more intimate relations with Wilkie
Collins during the years that succeeded, and I continued
playing the part. Nothing could exceed his friendly
consideration, or the pleasure of our business transactions.
Mr. Vining failing of success in the provinces in a few
weeks, and not having behaved well in the transaction
with me, Mr. Collins destroyed the agreement between

108

FKOM LIFE.

them, took all future right in the piece from him, and
placed it in my hands, for all future performances.
Nothing could be more generous than his acknowledgments to me. In June 1873, he writes:—
" MY DEAR REEVE,—First let me heartily congratulate you on the
great increase of reputation which your performance of Fosco has so
worthily won. I and my play are both deeply indebted to your
artistic sympathy, and your admirable business management—to say
nothing of the great increase of sale in the book in each town you
play, &c."

Later on, I wished to make a difference in our
arrangements, more to his advantage. He replies:—
" I cannot reconcile myself to the idea. You, who have assumed
,the responsibility, surely ought to be the first gainer. I thank you
most heartily, but pray forgive me if I ask you, for my sake, to say
no more about it."

I quote these letters, not out of any vain consideration
for myself, but because they speak volumes as to the
generosity and kindness of his nature, and I cannot help
sometimes drawing a comparison between Mr. Collins and
some of the leading authors of the present day in the
extravagant demands they make, often to the serious loss
of the speculator, manager, or actor, as the case may be.
When in London we invariably arranged to dine
together at his house in Gloucester-place, and spend a
quiet evening afterwards. During these pleasant meetings
we chatted over many men and things.
Of Charles Dickens he always spoke in terms of the
strongest affection; they had been friends for many years.
He described to me the meetings, when the idea of
Dickens reading his own works was first proposed.
Collins was greatly in favour of his doing it. Other
friends thought it infra dig, and objected. As all the

PEESONAL RECOLLECTIONS OF WILKIE COLLINS. 109
world knows, the good advice prevailed. I say good
advice, because thousands of people rejoiced in listening
to his marvellous power of individualizing his own
characters at the reading-desk; but that the continued
exertion shortened his life is certain. Before any new
reading he invited Collins and a few others to dinner, and
in the evening rehearsed it for their opinion and advice.
Collins said he could never forget the Nancy and Bill
Sikes scenes—the effect of it upon Dickens was wonderful
and painful in the extreme—every nerve in his sensitive
temperament was wound up to such a pitch of excited
energy that he fainted, and always afterwards when he
read the scenes in public they exhausted him. He was
strongly advised not to continue, but, seeing the effect
they had upon the public, he persevered. "This reading,"
said Collins, " did more to kill him than all his other work
put together." Of John Foster's life, he had little that
was good to say. He and other friends of the dead author
were most desirous of suppressing many things in the
book, which might have been omitted with no loss to the
public. Every great man has little weaknesses. One of
Charles Dickens's was vanity. Why parade it ? Why
tell of family matters with which the public have nothing
to do? Foster was not to be advised or controlled.
Foster's own vanity and identity with all Dickens's works
and actions are so persistently put before the reader
that John Foster is as prominent as Charles Dickens
throughout.
With regard to the unfortunate disagreements between
Dickens and his wife, there is little doubt she was unsuited
to a sensitive, quick-tempered nature. She was entirely
wanting in tact. Collins described to me a scene at Judge
Talfourd's. It was a dinner party, at which most of the

110

FROM LIFE.

leading representatives of literature and art were present.
The conversation turned on Dickens's last book. Some of
the characters were highly praised. Mrs. Dickens joined
in the conversation, and said she could not understand
what people could see in his writings to talk so much
about them. The face of Dickens betrayed his feelings.
Again the book was referred to, and a lady present said
she wondered when and how many strange thoughts came
into his head. "Oh," replied Dickens, " I don't know.
They come at odd times, sometimes in the night, when I
jump out of bed, and dot them down, for fear I should
have lost them by the morning/' " That is true," said Mrs.
Dickens. " I have reason to know it, jumping out of bed,
and getting in again, with his feet as cold as a stone."
Dickens left the table, and was afterwards found sitting
alone in a small room off the hall—silent and angry. It was
a long time before they could induce him to join the circle
again. We talked over many things in Foster's life of his
dead friend, and some of them he directly contradicted.
We talked over other matters^ concerning Dickens not in
the book, and the impression left upon me was that there
was much beauty in the character of Charles Dickens.
Collins was too just to be partial; he knew his friend's
failings, and spoke of them. Unfortunately, I only met
Charles Dickens twice—and then it was in the company
of others. I only remember his expressive face, so strongly
marked, so full of character, and his persuasive voice.
Another friend of both authors stands out clearly
though, as Wilkie Collins and I entered his room on
my first visit — a big, burly, carelessly-dressed man,
with loosely-cut clothes on, a fine head, good features,
rather long, straggling, uncut hair—Charles Reade. He
was cutting the pictures out of various periodicals, and

PERSONAL RECOLLECTIONS OF WILKIE COLLINS. I l l
sticking them in a large book open before him. Discarded
Illustrated News and Graphics littered the floor thickly
about him. The study was exactly as described in A
Terrible Temptation. As we entered, he looked up with a
genial smile, shook hands, then thrust both hands deep
down in his pockets, and walking to the fire turned his
back to it. His language was strong, but his heart was as
tender as a child's, with almost a child's vanity. "You
will see/' said a lady to me, " how I will please him."
" Oh, Mr. Eeade," she said, looking at him. " I like
looking at you, there is something in your face so good,
and so manly." "My dear Mrs.
/'replied Eeade,
" you flatter me. Upon my life, I should be angry, if I
did not know you were a woman of judgment," and the
next minute he turned to the'glass, brushing up his hair
with his hands, as pleased as possible, seeking out the
particular points in his face on which she founded her
opinion. He was eccentric in some things. His great
ambition was to be a theatrical manager, and he was
never better pleased than when rehearsing some of his
pieces. He was a great stickler for reality. On producing
a play at the Princess's, the first act of which was a farmyard scene, he insisted on having a real stone wall built—
the stones all a certain size. It was an immense amount
of trouble, and did not look half so effective as a painted
one. Amongst other things he insisted on having a live
pig on the stage; the property-master raising some objection,
Eeade lost his temper, drove to the market and bought
one. He was bringing it back in triumph to the stagedoor, when arriving there, an officious super, seeing who it
was, quickly opened the door of the cab, which Eeade
was unprepared for; out jumped the pig, and away it
scampered down the street, Eeade after it, calling out,

112

FKOM LIFE.

" Stop my pig," to the amusement and surprise of all the
young ruffianism of the neighbourhood. Collins delighted
in telling this story, and in imitating Reade and his pighunt.
He was often amused, sometimes angry, at the opinions
written, and expressed, as to the improbability and
extravagance of his characters and plots. " I wish," he
once said to me, " before people make such assertions they
would think what they are talking or writing about. I
know of very few instances in which fiction exceeds the
probability of reality. With regard to my novels, I'll tell
you where I got many of my plots from. I was in Paris,
wandering about the streets and amusing myself by
looking into the shops. I came to an old book place—
half shop and half store, and I found some dilapidated
volumes, the records of French crime—a sort of French
Newgate Calendar. I thought, here is a prize. So it
turned out to be. In them I found some of my best plots.
The Woman in White was one. The plot of that has been
called outrageous—the substitution and burial of the mad
girl for Lady Glyde, and the incarceration of Lady Glyde
as the mad girl. It was true, and it was from the trial of
the villain of the plot—the Count Fosco of the novel—I
got my story/'
In Man and Wife he protested against men overtraining, and in August 1882, he writes me—" I am getting
on with a new story. I am striking a blow in my new
story at the wretches who are called vivisectors." In
writing to me on the production of the former play at the
Prince of Wales's Theatre, he says:—" It was certainly an
extraordinary success. The pit got on its legs and cheered
with all its might the moment I showed myself in front of
the curtain. I had only thirty friends in the house to

PERSONAL RECOLLECTIONS OF WILKIE COLLINS. 113
match against a packed band of the 'lower orders' of
literature and the drama, assembled at the back of the
dress circle, to hiss and.laugh at the first chance. The
services of my friends were not required. The public
never gave the 'opposition' a chance all through the
evening. The acting was really superb—the Bancrofts,
Miss Foote, Hare, Coglan, surpassed themselves—not a
mistake made by anybody. The play was over at a
quarter past eleven sharp. It remains to be seen whether
I can fill the theatre with a new audience. Thus far, the
results have been extraordinary." He then quotes to me
the receipts, and later on they average over £100 a night.
On one occasion, he writes:—"They actually accommodated £131 in that little place. I was up in London
during the run, and he arranged for a box, that we might
go together. On arriving at his house to dinner, I found
him in very low spirits. His brother was very ill, probably
dying, and he was unable to go with me. He had a friend
staying in the house, and we went together. I had
promised to return to supper, and tell him what I thought
of the play and the performance. When I got back his
brother was dead. He had just returned terribly broken
down about it. We talked together until nearly two
o'clock in the morning."
On finishing the dramatization of the New Magdalen^
he writes me:—" Both Miss Cavendish and I would be
glad to obtain your valuable assistance to direct the
performances, and to play the principal part." My having
decided on visiting America, and other business matters
prevented this arrangement. After its production he
writes me:—" The reception of my New Magdalen was prodigious. I was forced to appear half-way though the
piece, as well as at the end. The acting took every one
i

114

FROM LIFE.

by surprise, and the second night's enthusiasm quite
equalled the first." " W e have really hit the mark,"
later on he writes me. "Ferrari translates it for Italy,
Eeginer has two theatres ready for me in Paris, and
Lambe, of Vienna, has accepted it for his theatre. Here
the enthusiasm continues."
On March 10th, 1873, he says in a letter:—" I have had
a great offer to go to America this autumn and ' read/ I t
would be very pleasant, and I should like it if we could
go together. I am really thinking of the trip."
The trip was decided on, and it was arranged that we
should start together as he desired, but circumstances
prevented my leaving England within two or three weeks
of the date. So I followed him a few weeks after. Before
starting a circumstance occurred in Scarborough perhaps
worth relating, showing how small a world it is with some
people. A friend of mine, a doctor, was visiting one
evening a patient of his, a large cotton-spinner from one
of the Lancashire towns, and asked me to go with him.
Two Manchester merchants, who had just returned from
the exhibition at Vienna, friends of the patient's, were
there. Ifc was the first time the Manchester men had
been on the Continent, and they were comparing the
places they had seen to Manchester, returning with the
full conviction that there was not a place to compare with
it. Tall chimneys, manufactories, and huge warehouses,
formed, in their eyes, the acme of all that was necessary
to beautify the world.
" So, Mr. Reeve/' said the patient, " the doctor tells me
you are just off to America?"
"Yes, in a few weeks' time," I replied.
" Going by yourself?"
" N o ; with a friend."

PERSONAL RECOLLECTIONS OF WILKIE COLLINS. 115
"'Mr. Keeve is going with Mr. Wilkie Collins/' said the
doctor.
" Oh, indeed," replied the gentleman, and the name was
passed round by the three merchants.
"Collins," said one, thinking; "Wilkie Collins/' said
the other, evidently trying to recall the name.
" Never heard of him," said the patient.
" Nor I." " Nor I," the others replied.
"Mr. Reeve," asked one of the gentlemen, "Wilkie
Collins, what Manchester house does he represent ?"
I joined Collins at the Westminster Hotel in New
York, and found him comfortably settled in the same sittingroom and bedroom his friend Charles Dickens had lived
in. . Every one knows the extent to which interviewing is
carried on in America, where every paper has its interviewer, generally a man not troubled with modesty, or
wanting push sufficient to force himself into every bedroom,
if he cannot get his information otherwise. Of course
Collins was interviewed. It was the pest of his life for
the first two or three weeks. One thing greatly amused
us. Before leaving England he found himself in want of
a rough cheap suit of clothes to wear travelling, and
driving through the city he turned into Moses's great
emporium and bought a cheap shoddy suit.
The New York Herald, in describing Collins, gave an
elaborate account of his person. He was wearing at the
time the slop suit, and the description wound up with the
statement that Mr. Collins was evidently a connoisseur in
dress. He had on one of those stylish West End tailor's
suits of a fashionable cut, by which an Englishman of
taste is known. A circumstance occurred in New York
which is a very good illustration of what housekeepers
have to put up with in servants in that part of the world.

116

FROM LIFfi.

We were invited out to dinner to a large stone house in
Fifth-avenue on a Sunday. Arriving there we were
received by the host and hostess; they both seemed to be
very uncomfortable, and I had noticed that a young lady
opened the front door to us. At length the hostess asked
us to excuse the want of servants, and the dinner, which
consisted of a piece of cold meat, some fruit and cheese.
She explained that the servants objected to guests in the
house on Sunday, as they wished to have that day to
themselves. They had been humbly asked by their
mistress to permit it on this occasion; they graciously
acknowledged they might have done so if they had had a
week's notice to alter their arrangements, but as it was
only a day's, it was quite out of the question; and accordingly they had walked out of the house. We have not
quite arrived at this pass yet in Australia, but it is only a
question of time.
Another rather amusing circumstance occurred. He
arrived in an up-country town in the afternoon to give a
reading in the evening, and was washing himself after a
long railway journey, in his bedroom, when a servant in
the hotel opened the door without knocking, and asked—
" Are you the Britisher as is come down 'ere to do a bit
o' reading ?"
" Yes, I suppose I am the man."
" Well, 'ere's some o' the big bugs and bosses o' this 'ere
town come jist to see you/'
The chief men in the town had come to pay their
respects and welcome him.
" That's awkward," replied Collins; " I am just dressing."
" I guess they'll wait till you've scrubbed your skin and
put on your pants. Jist say when you're ready/'
With that he coolly walked to th& window, opened it;

PEKSONAL RECOLLECTIONS OF WILKIE COLLINS. 117
it was a very cold day, and leaning out, commenced
leisurely spitting into the yard below. He was chewing
tobacco.
" My friend," said Collins," when you have done spitting,
would you mind closing that window ?"
" Well, I don't see the harm it's a-doing you."
" Perhaps not, but if you will shut it, and tell the gentlemen below I will be with them directly, it will do me
more good."
"You'd better tell them yerself, I guess. If you objects
to my spitting out o' this winder, I objects to yer trying to
boss this establishment."
And putting his hands in his pockets, he leisurely
lounged out of the room, and left Wilkie Collins standing
in amazement at the fellow's impudence.
His readings were not as successful as he anticipated.
I was not surprised at this. I never had an opportunity
of hearing him; but I am quite sure he lacked the
necessary power to make them acceptable to a general
audience.
As a further proof of his good-nature, I may mention
that, in America especially, I found it absolutely necessary
to cut out several of the dialogue scenes, possessing neither
action or interest, in the last acts of The Woman in White.
They served certainly to unravel and carry on the plot in
a way that was well enough in a novel, but tedious on the
stage. One scene particularly between Sir Percival and
his servant, which consisted of letters and telegrams chiefly,
wanted omitting. He could not see how it was possible to
carry on the plot without i t ; we had several talks, and
letters passed on the subject. Finally, he agreed to leave
the matter in my hands, which ended in my condensing all
the necessary matter of the three scenes in ^the one aqt of

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the asylum, and making it really, as the piece was afterwards noticed, the most powerful in the play.
He had dramatized No Name, and, in wishing to provide
me with another character than Fosco, suggested Captain
Wragge. He was most dissatisfied with his work, and asked
me if I would write another play, and then we would compare the two. I did so. The only fault he found was I
had in the last act kept too closely to his novel, which I had
of course done purposely, not to hurt his pride in his work.
To my surprise he gave me a carte blanche to do as I liked
with the characters. The result pleased him, and he never
allowed his own version to be played afterwards ; mine was
the only one since acted. Very few actors—in fact I
cannot name one—would have done the same.
His health was continually bad ; his letters always refer
to it. " I am only just recovering from a severe attack of
gout in the eyes." " I am away in France so as to get the
completest possible change of air and scene. God knows I
want it." Another time he is in Venice, trying to shake
off this continuous suffering, or " I am cruising in the
Channel, and getting back my strength after a long
attack." From my first knowledge of him in 1871 he had
been in the habit of taking opium in considerable doses,
and had frequent injections of morphia to relieve the
neuralgic pains he suffered from besides gout.
His diet was singular. At dinner he would sometimes
take some bread soaked in meat-gravy only. In the night
he was fond of cold soup and champagne. For exercise he
often walked quickly up and down-stairs so many times by
the aid of the bannisters. And I am quite certain the
frequent use of opium had its effect upon his writing in
later years.
At Christmas, 1883, I received a Christmas card from

PERSONAL. RECOLLECTIONS OF WILKIE COLLINS. 119
him, a picture of English oaks, on which he had written
" A little bit of English landscape, my dear Eeeve, to remind you of the old country, and the old friend." His idea
of Australia was a somewhat strange one; he had little
notion of oaks ever growing there, or of intellectuality and
refinement being found among its native born inhabitants.
He thought, as many do in England, that Australians were
a hardy, rough race, and that huge deserts or wildernesses
were the only characteristics of the country.
In 1886, he writes me:—" My new novel, now shortly to
be published in book form, has appeared previously in
various newspapers, and the speculator purchasing all
serial rights in England and the colonies, has given me the
largest sum I have ever received for any of my books
before."
I cannot better close these random memories of one
whose friendship I valued and whose death I lament than
by quoting the last words of this letter.
"As for my health, considering that I was sixty-two
years old last birthday, that I have worked hard as a
writer (perhaps few literary men harder), and that gout
has tried to blind me first and kill me afterwards on more
than one occasion, I must not complain. Neuralgia- and
nervous exhaustion generally have sent me to the sea to
be patched up, and the sea is justifying my confidence in
it. I must try, old friend, and live long enough to welcome
you back when you return to be with us once more.
" Always truly yours,
" W I L K I E COLLINS,"

OUR DOG

COMPANIONS.

I DO not believe in man, woman, or child who could be
cruel to animals, dogs particularly.
I t is difficult to define their intelligence. A great deal
has been talked and written about it. It is called instinct.
Then the question is, what is instinct ? The dictionary
tells us that it is " a natural tendency to action/' " moved
from within/' This implies no question of reasoning, no
power of thought. Well, if dogs have only instinct and
men have reason, it is a great pity in many instances the
quality is not reversed, for I would often back a dog's
instinct against a man's good sense.
Is the strongest affection nothing more—the power of
distinguishing friends from enemies—the knowledge of
their master's habits—the act of protecting their master's
property—the strange power of locality—the passions of
jealousy and revenge, which they evidently possess—the
positive characteristics as in human beings—is it all instinct ? A dog dreams, so undoubtedly he thinks. If he
thinks, why should he not reason ?
I am going to relate a few stories to prove, if I can
prove, that dogs do reason. Some little time ago I was
reading in a Melbourne paper of a dog who was with
his master seeing a friend off on board the Aldinga.
The dog did not see his master leave the ship, and he
was taken on to Adelaide. He made himself comfortable
on board by cultivating the friendship of the sailors. On

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the steamer arriving at Port Adelaide, seven miles away
from the city, he landed, and having no luggage to submit to the Customs, trotted off along the main road
to Adelaide, selecting it by instinct, if you like to call
it so. But strange to say, he took up his quarters at
one of the best hotels, and the landlord and servants,
thinking he must belong to some one staying there, accommodated him. I have not heard, and the paper did not
state, that he consulted the time-table, or asked the
servants; but, sure enough, on the morning of the Aldinga
sailing again, there was the dog on board, ready to return
with it. He had omitted, no doubt, to pay his score at the
hotel, but a great many bipeds do that. He returned to
Melbourne. We will do him the justice to believe he
wagged a farewell to the sailors and the cook on board.
When the vessel arrived at the wharf he landed, made his
way home, and was welcomed by his master, who had
given the dog up for lost.
I know of another similar instance. A pet dog belonging
to a member of my own family was stolen at Ryde, in the Isle
of Wight, and taken over to Portsmouth. Two days afterwards he was seen in the streets at Gosport, with a broken
string hanging to his collar, by a gentleman who thought
he recognized him. He had broken away, and was making
his way to the pier, where the Ryde, Cowes, and Southampton steamers call. He had crossed from Portsmouth
to Gosport by the ferry-boat. The Southampton and Cowes
steamer came to the pier, the dog sat looking, but the
moment the Ryde return boat was alongside he jumped on
board, and returning, he was welcomed home.
Shortly
after, the gentleman who had seen him in Gosport called
in, and to his amazement saw my gentleman comfortably
enjoying a snooze on the hearthrug in front of the fire.
A very pathetic story was told me in. England by a man

122

FROM LIFE.

who was acquainted with the owner, and knew the dog,
the hero of the story. The wife of an old clergyman died
in Devonshire, leaving an old pet. According to her dying
wish he sent the dog to a daughter, who was married to a
curate doing duty in the midland counties. The animal
was sent by railway carefully labelled, and was received
with great pleasure and affection by its new mistress ;
but it was not to be comforted, refused its food, and at
last disappeared. Bills offering a reward were issued,
inquiries were made, everything was done without avail.
The lady delayed writing to her father, hoping to recover
it, and knowing how grieved he would be, for his late wife's
sake, at the loss. About ten days after the old clergyman
in Devonshire was roused from his sleep by hearing the
cries of a dog at the rectory door. He got up and listened,
then opening the window, looked down and saw the shadow
of a dog, who, hearing the opening of the window, gave a
long low cry as if in pain. He hastened down-stairs, and
there was his wife's old pet, lame, his feet bleeding from
walking, looking starved, and dying. He carried it into
the house, called up the servant, had a fire made and food
brought, but it could not eat. The servant rolled it in a
blanket. The dog then seemed quite happy, and, licking
its old master's hand, died. It had travelled over 150
miles to reach its home, over a country it had never seen
before. Was this instinct only ? I should like to know
what were that dog's thoughts as he trudged weary and
footsore to his old home ? Was there no loving hope at
the end of it ? Were there no thoughts of a happy past
and the dead love of his mistress, which the dog so missed ?
If the dog had these thoughts, this love, had it not reason ?
A still more pathetic story was told me by a gentleman
who had been many years in the colonies, and was at
Sydney at the time. The captain of a gunboat anchored

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in the harbour was taken very ill and died. He had a
favourite dog, and during his illness the animal never left
his side, remained there day and night, seldom eating, and
growling at every one but the doctor who came into the
cabin. After the captain's death the dog kept watch, and
followed the coffin as it was lowered into the boat. The
boat put off, and before it had gone a dozen yards the dog
jumped into the water, swimming after it. They landed
the body on the wharf, and forming a small funeral procession, conveyed it to the cemetery. The dog followed to
the grave, and remained there. The sailors tried to coax
the dog away; but it was no use, he would not move, so
they left him there. The next day one of the officers of
the ship saw a dog swimming from the shore, and making
for the vessel. It was the mourner at the grave. A sailor
lifted it from the water at the bottom of the gangway. It
would not take any food; but made for the captain's cabin,
got on to its late master's bed, and died there in a few
hours. The sequel to the story is this. Some gentlemen
of Sydney were so struck with the affection of the animal,
they begged its body, had it stuffed, mounted in a handsome case, and sent it home to the captain's widow. Her
husband never had a truer friend.
When in Cumberland, in the lake district, some few
years ago, a shepherd's dog was pointed out to me, with
the following story :—His master perished in the snow the
previous winter. After two days the dog made his appearance at the shepherd's hut, and kept worrying the man's
wife, moving to the door, looking back at her, with a
strange, anxious look in his eyes. Other friends came in;
he did the same, looking round at them. At last the wife,
convinced something was wrong, accompanied by others,
followed him. He led them about five miles across the
country, straight to the body of his late master, dead in the

124

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snow. The snow was heaped around him, but the dog had
kept it from off the body so long as he could.
A counterpart to this occurred only the other day in the
High Peak of Derbyshire. The London Daily Telegraph
devoted a long leading article to the story. Briefly the
facts were these :—Two boys, aged thirteen and seventeen,
set forth with two collies to look after the sheep. The snow
was very deep. The boys did not return, and after some
hours the two dogs rushed back into the farm-house, excited
and whimpering. The mother was convinced evil had
fallen upon the boys, and with her husband followed the
dogs away out over the desolate moors. They led them
towards the huge fringing " serace " (as it is called in the
Alps), which hang in festoons of many tons weight over
the steep edges of the crags of Winstone. The dogs
stopped and began to scratch, and there the mother saw on
the de-hris of an avalanche a boy's foot. She worked away
with her numbed hands as the snow whirled round her in
angry clouds. At last she took to her arms and warmed
against her breast the rigid cold body of her youngest son.
He was not dead ; she warmed him back to life; and then
she noticed the old dog Nell scratching and "waffling"
close by, and barking. They dug down deep, and there, as
the father said, was the eldest, " quite dead, face downwards ; the snow was four feet deep over his head."
The
avalanche had rushed down from the heights and buried
both boys—one to live, the other to die. Then, to quote
the Telegraph, the dogs, " with that mystic and bewildering instinct that no philosopher or naturalist can unravel,
set out to seek for human aid for these imperilled lives.
Nell and Lot are names to be added to the record of brave
and loving and wise dogs, who have kept up their race's
proud title of being ' the friend of man/ "
The Ettrick Shepherd tells a story how he lost his

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125

flock in a terrible storm on the Scotch mountains, and
thought himself a ruined man. The next day he wandered, hopelessly miserable, back to the glen where he
had taken shelter the previous night, and found to his
surprise all the flock, not one missing, with his faithful
dog keeping watch over them. He had gathered them
in over miles of country in a pitiless snowstorm, and so
saved Hogg from ruin. I was reminded of this story some
few years ago, when walking over the mountainous country
near the Pass of Glencoe. In the gloaming I watched
the shepherds on the mountains with a piece of rag or
handkerchief tied to their sticks, directing by signals the
dog's movements, a mile or so away. Every action the
dog seemed to understand, as he gathered in the flock.
Some friends of mine in Sydney pointed to an animal
on the hearthrug, and told me the following:—The dog
was a bright-looking liver and white setter, called Dash.
He had a mortal dislike to an old Newfoundland dog
belonging to the family, and was jealous of him; he
objected to his putting his nose inside the door of the
house, and made himself as generally disagreeable as dogs
can be to each other. The lady and her daughter had
moved a few weeks previously, having sold her old house,
about two miles nearer town. In their new house they
were surprised to see the wonderful attention of the setter
to the Newfoundland. The latter was allowed to come
unmolested into the house, and what they particularly
noticed was, he was continually invited to go out for a
run. At last they saw the two dogs depart, Dash in the
highest spirits. Two hours afterwards he returned without
his companion. The Newfoundland they knew to be an
easy-going old fellow, not particularly affectionate, and
perfectly contented anywhere so long as he had comfortable
quarters and plenty to eat—-a dog, too, not at all likely

126

FROM LIFE.

to find its way about, so they concluded he was lost. A
few days afterwards a letter arrived from the tenants of
the old house to say the dog was there. The explanation
was the two dogs came together, the setter leading the
Newfoundland to the kitchen. He waited until he saw
the Newfoundland well fed and comfortable, then left
him, and returned delighted home, no doubt chuckling
at the trick he had played his companion. The Newfoundland remained in his old quarters, and Dash was in
full possession of the new.
A very amusing anecdote appeared in a letter published in The Spectator some time ago. A fine two-yearold mastiff was one day seen carrying a hen, very gently,
in his mouth, to the kennel. Placing her in one corner,
he stood sentry while she laid an egg, which he at once
devoured. The two became great friends from that day,
and the hen liked it, for she afterwards objected to lay
her eggs anywhere but in Bob's kennel, and he eat them,
allowing her to help herself to the tit-bits out of his
platter as a reward. There was very cunning reasoning
here, for the dog evidently thought the best way to have
a supply of eggs was to keep a hen to himself.
A most extraordinary instance of sagacity was described
in the Times by Mr. T. Mosse Macdonald, Secretary of
King's College Hospital, of a wounded dog being brought
by another to the hospital for treatment. On a Sunday
morning, the porter in charge of the entrance-hall of
the hospital heard a dog barking at the door, and, going
out to send him away, found three dogs there, two of
them (white and tan terriers) standing up on the top
of the flight of steps at the door, while a third (a longhaired collie) lay beside them close to the door-scraper,
" looking," to quote the words of the porter who reported
the case, "very sorrowful/' and exhausted by loss of blood.

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As soon as the porter came out the two terriers left the
collie dog with him and ran off. Seeing the sad plight
that the dog was in, the porter showed him to one of the
medical students. While the surgeon was procuring
bandages the dog had moved away from the door, across
the drive, to the railings of the grass plot opposite the
hospital. On examination it was found that he had an
artery cut on his right fore-leg, with a 3-inch wound.
The leg was dressed and bandaged, and the hemorrhage
arrested, and the dog lay outside the hospital on the
grass for a couple of hours, and then went away. The
blood-stained footmarks of the dog were afterwards traced
back to the spot where he had received the injury in
Yates' Court, behind the hospital. A hole just large
enough to admit a dog was found, with a sharp bit of
glass lodged under it, and it would appear that the dog
cut himself in an effort to force his way through into
Yates' Court. It is clear, from the marks made by his
pads, that he took the shortest possible cut to the hospital.
A friend of mine had a retriever, a very clever brute.
He was a great companion of his master, nearly always
with him, on board his yacht, or elsewhere. If by any
chance they were separated, if within finding distance,
the dog seldom missed discovering his master's whereabouts. I t was the dog's habit the last thing at night
to carry his slippers to him, and put them down at his
feet. One night my friend was going to the theatre, and
sent the dog home, where the beast anxiously waited
until about half-past ten o'clock. His master not returning, and both having had a long and busy day, for his
master had ridden about five-and-twenty miles, and the
dog had followed, he picked up the slippers, and set off
for the theatre. My friend was seated with some companions in the dress-circle, enjoying the performance,

128

FROM LIFE.

when all at once he felt something at his feet. Looking
down, there was the dog looking up, as much as to say,
" Do you know what time it is, and how long you have
kept me waiting ? Come home." And the slippers were
at his feet. He had cunningly managed to slip by the
check-taker and usher, and get into the box. I think
this animal had something more than instinct.
So far I have written about other people's dogs; now
for a little talk about my own. From boyhood upwards
I have hardly been without one, sometimes two. I have
had gentlemanly, well-born fellows and irreclaimable
blackguards, good-tempered, kind brutes, and ill-tempered
rascals, selfish and liberal, affectionate and hard-hearted,
strong and weak, intelligent and stupid—natures quite
as diverse as can be found in the human race; and one
peculiarity I have particularly noticed—with the halfbreeds, or mongrels, the truest affection is generally found.
Well-bred animals, as a rule, are bad-tempered and selfish.
It is a singular fact, if you look for strong domestic
affection in human beings, as a rule you find it in the
half-breeds or mongrels of society more than you do with
the thoroughbreds.
One of the cleverest dogs I ever had was a little blackand-tan terrier, a thoroughbred, bad-tempered, selfish,
wanting in affection, and an incorrigible scamp; but full
of pluck, shrewdness, and cunning. After I bought him
at Ryde, in the Isle of Wight, he had the distemper, and
a great local dog-authority assured me he would have a
bad" time of it. So he had, but he never laid up for a
day. I took him in a carriage I was driving in to
Newport. Before I had driven half a mile he had jumped
out with a whack, enough to knock the life out of him,
and ran twenty-eight miles without relaxing either speed
or noise; his will overpowered the disease. When he

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was a few weeks old I put him to a rat; he was on like
a shot, caught it in the back and threw it up dead. The
first time I took him to a coursing match with Scotch
terriers and rabbits—a common sport in the north of
England—his excitement was intense, and when I did
let him go he beat dogs twice his size, and took the
rabbit from under their noses. He had a great liking
for shoeless little vagabonds, who would throw stones for
him, and set him on to fight, quite irrespective of the
size of his opponents; the consequence was, he used to
be brought home with bits of flesh out occasionally, and
in a dilapidated condition. Like most prodigals in a
family, he was the favourite, and no end of half-crowns
were given for his recovery. A basket was bought, and
a luxurious little bed made to induce him to keep good
hours and go to bed properly. The little rascal would
not look at it, much less sleep in it, unless it Was put in
proper order for him. I had a favourite cat that he was
very jealous of. He dared not drive it off the hearthrug
before the fire when we were present, so he would lie
down with his back close against the cat's, glance up at
my wife, then at myself, and, if we pretended not to be
looking, give the cat a good push, repeating this until he
had pushed it completely off the hearthrug. During the
time I had the terrier I bought a very fine Labrador
Newfoundland dog, the son of a prize animal. The terrier
was furiously jealous of this new pet. In every possible
way he would prevent his coming into the room, fly up
at his nose just as it appeared inside the door, and finally,
when he found he could not prevent his entrance, he
would jump on my lap, and grin with diabolical passion
if the large animal came near. When the large dog had
a clean bed of straw, Dandy, the terrier, took possession,
and dared the other to come in until he had enjoyed the

130

FROM LIFE.

luxury of a good roll or sleep. The good-tempered New*foundland had great patience and affection, and never
attacked another dog when by himself, but Dandy never
missed an opportunity of making him fight when he was
out with him. The terrier made the first attack, and
when the enemy turned upon the terrier the big dog
commenced. Then when the battle was at its height,
round and round he danced in fiendish delight, giving
the enemy a grip of the leg, or tail, or any part that came
handiest. The fact became so notorious of the little
rascal setting the big dog on, that I was remonstrated
with by people in the neighbourhood about letting them
out together. It was my conviction from the first that
Dandy would come to a bad end—so he did. He was
barking before me, as usual, returning home one night;
all at once it ceased. I never saw or heard of him
afterwards.
Sailor, the large dog, remained a trusted friend for ten
years, and it was only a few,months ago the rug on which
his skin was stretched, looking like a huge black bear's,
was destroyed.
I bought a very young Scotch colley in the Highlands
of Scotland, and took him home to Edinburgh—an
awkward-looking puppy. I Was living in a large flat, he
was kept down-stairs; in a fortnight he knew my ring
for breakfast, and would not rest until he came up-stairs
to me. One very wet and dirty morning he was let out
as usual, and when he came in he was fastened up in the
coal-cellar by the landlord. Two mornings after the
weather was the same; he did not return; I was exceedingly angry, and thought I had lost him. I started off
for the theatre, about a mile away, with the full conviction
he was stolen. What was my surprise on reaching the
theatre to be told by the door-porter "that puppy of

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yours, sir, came in an hour ago; he's gone straight through,
to your office." There he was anxiously waiting. He
had only been to the place twice before with me. Ever
after, if fine, the dog came into the house; if wet, off he
started to the theatre—no more cellar for him. Is there
not a cunning knowledge of cause and effect in this that
would beat two-thirds of the children that were ever born ?
He travelled many miles with me, and was up to every
dodge. In railways I never paid for him—he was under
the seat, or somewhere out of sight, and had a knack
of getting into train or cab that was extraordinary.
In some apartments the landlady would not have a dog
about the place at night, then his place was my bedroom.
The first night this occurred he jumped on the foot of the
bed and woke me up scratching himself. I kicked him
off and scolded him. Afterwards whenever he wanted
to scratch he jumped off, had a good go in at it, then
jumped up again. When at the theatre he would remain
quietly under the dressing-table, waiting. I might change
half a dozen times, he knew immediately I put on my
ordinary clothes, and came out rejoicing. I shall never
forget how he woke up the sleepers in the town of
Carlisle, after a twelve hours' journey coming to me by
train.
I was turning over some old numbers of the Illustrated
News the other day, and found the portrait of a roughhaired terrier that had attached himself to one of the
foot regiments. He accompanied it to the Crimea, shared
in all the horrors of that campaign, had followed his
regiment into battle, and been wounded, accompanied it
afterwards to India, and was decorated with war medals,
and finally died from exhaustion, to the grief of the
whole regiment, on one of its long marches.
Talking with a friend in Sydney some little time ago;

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FROM LIFE.

he was not fond of dogs, and would not allow they
possessed any stronger virtue than instinct. At the same
time, he said," I must acknowledge I know of one instance
that I cannot account for. I had a station up the country,
and for convenience I shifted the stable from one paddock
to another some little distance off. The horse would
insist on going back to his old place. I noticed the dog
seemed to remonstrate with him by running before hi in
and barking. The third day, as the horse wras going to
the old stable, the dog deliberately seized hold of the rope
hanging from the horse's bridle, and led it to its new
stable. Having seen him safely in, he came back to me,
as much as to say, ' You see I've done it.' And how the
devil the dog had such sense, I don't know."
We have heard of the fireman's dog, the animal who
thoroughly enjoyed the excitement of a fire; the policeman's dog, who has a fellow feeling for the mechanical
perambulations of the bobby; the postman's dog—there
is one in the neighbourhood I lately lived in, who regularly, morning and evening, met the postman, accompanied
him on his rounds, then left him. Who has not pitied
the unfortunate blind man's dog, with so many friends
rejoicing in a liberty in which he cannot join ?
Can the reader recall any of those funny dogs we see
in a circus sometimes? A Dalmatian was the funniest
one I ever saw; he was the clown. I laughed at him
more than I ever did at a real clown. He had to burlesque
everything the other dogs did, and it was done in the most
comical manner, and he evidently enjoyed doing his work.
Many may laugh at my saying so much about dogs,
but I sin in very good company. In the interesting life
of Sir James Simpson, the great physician of Edinburgh,
we can read how much he loved his dog, and his anxiety
at having lost it twenty miles away from home. His time

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133

and rest were very valuable, but he waited up the whole
night for it, and writes to his brother with all sorts of
suggestions as to finding it. Early the next morning the
terrier, to his great joy, returned over the twenty miles
of strange road to Sir James's house in Queen-street, and
he and the household rejoiced.
Every reader of Sir Walter Scott will remember his
constant companions, every lover of Landseer will know
the subject of his greatest pictures, and every admirer of
Byron will remember—
" N e a r this spot
Are deposited the remains of one
Who possessed Beauty without Vanity,
Strength without Insolence,
Courage without Ferocity,
And all the Virtues of Man without his Vices.
This praise, which would be unmeaning flattery
If inscribed over human ashes,
I s but a just tribute to the memory of
BOATSWAIN, a

.dog,

Who was born at Newfoundland, 1803,
And died at Newstead Abbey, November 18, 1808.
To mark a friend's remains these stones arise,
I never knew but one—and here he lies."

There is a little mongrel called " Nero " who seems to
have found its way to stern old Thomas Carlyle's heart.
He was his and his wife's companion for ten years, and he
writes:—"February 1, 1860, he died. I could not have
believed my grief then and since would have been the
twentieth part of what it was—nay, that the want of him
would have been to me other than a riddance. Our last
midnight walk together (for he insisted on trying to come),
January 31, is still painful to my thought. Little dimwhite speck of life, of love, fidelity, and feeling, girdled by
the darkness of nights eternal!"

IN SEARCH OF LODGINGS.
I KNEW an actor who made it a rule in every lodging he
had to secure a likeness of his landlady. He was something of a photographer, so the task was not so difficult
—the landlady often feeling proud of the impression she
had evidently made on her lodger. He kept this unique
collection in a photographic album devoted to the purpose,
and, so far as he could, he classified them as thus—
"Comfortable," "genteel," "shabby-genteel," "assertive,"
"gossiping," "thieving," "lying," "imbibing," &c. He
was engaged nearly all the year round in a travelling
theatrical company, making six or twelve night stoppages
in the different towns, and the variety of faces and forms
may be imagined as very numerous—I say forms, there
was hardly a figure amongst them. It is a curious fact,
English lodging-house keepers are as a rule crummy, not to
say fat, and lose their waists with their youth. As a rule,
also, they are mothers of families (generally large ones),
widows, and their dear departeds drank. I never saw a
queerer or more amusing collection than my friend's
photos, and he generally improved the effect by a few
trenchant and descriptive remarks, which let one into the
more prominent characteristics of the ladies.

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135

The same class of lodging-letting landladies hardly exist
on this side of the world. Here you have the abominable
boarding-house—the most detestable of all ways of living
—where the lodger is made the slave to his landlady's
system. He is a free man—if married they are free
people—in nothing save, perhaps, a bedroom. If a single
man, as he often has to share this with another, even such
small comfort is denied him. I always think the majority
of such women look upon their boarders as so many
animals, to be kept in the house as cheaply as possible,
and fed at stated hours; or as so many articles of furniture,
to be kept in order, and turned out when no longer useful
—that is, when they no longer pay. Landladies of this
kind have their interests too much divided to beget
personal confidence on either side, and their household
duties fill up too much of their time.
On the other side of the world lodging-house keepers are
a distinct class to themselves—of different grades of course,
and different dispositions. You have the exception there,
as in Australia, I suppose, of the motherly soul who makes
it a duty to attend to your comforts; but the majority of
London or provincial landladies do nothing of the kind.
There are the shabby-genteel ladies, who let their rooms,
and give you distinctly to understand at starting they
condescend to wait on you. A lady of this kind generally
keeps (or rather half starves) an underpaid, down-at-heel
slavey, who sleeps God knows where and God knows when,
and who drags out an existence of dirt and work in a
dismal, underground kitchen, that gives one the shivers
even to look into. Servants in Australia know nothing of
this sort of thing—they would not stand it. Perhaps the
lady is a widow, perhaps she has a husband; if she has, he
is generally a loafer, who helps clean the boots, or run

136

FROM LIFE.

errands by stealth—the dignity of the family would be
injured were it known. These people have some relation
just on the outside of the aristocracy, some one who keeps
or has kept their own carriage; the lady has had a mamma,
and papa, who were of some mysterious importance. As
for the table, it is a case of hashed mutton all the year
round. Then there is the assertive landlady, who will
persist in asserting herself, and obtruding her presence in
season and out of season, who interferes with your quiet,
and sits down in a chair near the door to argue a point
with you. The hard-up is another branch, who is always
wanting her money in advance, always having unexpected
claims on her purse, whose weekly bill wants examination,
for she is not proof against pilfering your butter, tea,
sugar, or spirits in a small way. Talking of spirits reminds
me of the thirsty landlady who occasionally exceeds discretion, and at such times becomes over-attentive or
bibulously offensive. I anx thinking, too, of a landlady I
had for a fortnight in Cheltenham—a respectable-looking
woman, in a remarkably well-furnished house. My whisky
disappeared in the most barefaced manner. One evening
I and my wife were going out, and I had got a fresh bottle
in that day. As we took our departure my wife thought
to give the lady a cutting and sarcastic reminder, and said
—" Mrs. W., we have opened a fresh bottle of whisky; Mr.
Reeve would be very obliged if you would leave him
sufficient for a glass on his return/' Never was a cutting
remark more thrown away, for Mrs. W. took my wife at
her word, and we found the lady insensibly drunk in our
sitting-room, with just sufficient for my glass left in the
bottle. There is the over-clean landlady who is always
worrying you about wiping your boots, your cigar-ashes,
and a hundred other little things. Then you have the

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137

over-dirty landlady; these are chiefly to be found in
Ireland, Scotland, or the northern towns of England. I
think worst of all is the shiftless landlady, the woman
without method, sense, or money, who is always in trouble,
always making excuses for the commonest necessaries,
always slovenly.
For some years I travelled over England, Ireland, and
Scotland, and it was a mistake my not following my
friend's example. What a book I should have had ? In
turning over the pages of a small volume of mine published
years ago, called Romance or Eeality, I find a chapter
relating some of my experiences, when, as a member of a
stock company, money was not over flush, and a respectable
but not expensive lodging was the desideratum. The
chapter suggested this paper, and the reader has only to
substitute the name of Wybert Reeve in place of Wiggens,
and two or three of these really truthful episodes of
lodging-house experiences in Manchester at Christmas-time
may be amusingly recorded. I quote from the book.
" Despite the elements being unpropitious, despite of
snow, rain and cold—Wiggens and his dog departed on the
difficult task of discovering decent lodgings in Manchester.
After much weary walking he obtained them, and when
the shades of evening had fallen on the busy streets, and
the gas-lamps shone with bilious lustre through the foggy
and smoky atmosphere, Wiggens removed his traps, and
with his traps his wife and dog. As the clock of a
neighbouring church announced to all who were in the
way to hear it the hour .of eleven they were once more
seated by the domestic hearth, looking round upon their
handsomely-furnished room with complacent eyes, snugly
ensconced in rosewood-framed easy-chairs, whilst the dog
squatted on his haunches between them, winked at the

138

FROM LIFE.

bright fire, and ever and anon wagged his tail, and looking
up into their faces seemed to say, with all the satisfaction
of the clown in the pantomime, ' Here we are !' To complete their felicity, the Spirit of Beer whispered in the ear
of Wiggens a little would be enjoyable. It is ordered and
procured, though not without trepidation was the command
given, as a tall, rather fine-looking, comparatively young
woman in black silk dress replied to the bell—she looked
to have a soul above fetching six-pennyworth of malt. It
was not so, because the beer was brought. But, alas! did
the Wiggenses dream ? Was it a jug, or the shadow of a
very nasty, big yellow-looking, vulgar jug that appeared ?
Could people possessed of such furniture own such a jug—
and serve their genteel lodgers with such offensive-looking
earthenware. It was too true, for now the sweet lady in
silk came to the door—'she wanted the jug/ It was
evidently the only one they possessed, and the spirit-of her
husband, like that of Wiggens, had yearned for beer.
With a light heart, jug in hand, the landlord departed,
when, not being quite firm on his pins, and the door-steps
frozen over, a crash was heard. He had fallen, smashed
the jug, the only one, and, unable to get another, after an
evident wrangle, in which the words 'careless old fool/
and 'stupid ass/ were heard in a lady's voice—they
retired beerless to bed. Some people have accommodating
dispositions. Such had the Wiggenses on this occasion.
Retiring to bed, they find it minus sheets, upon which
they held a philosophical discussion on the wholesomeness
of blankets, and having nestled in the same, sank into the
arms of Morpheus.
"The morning having long since dawned, it was past
eight o'clock, the male Wiggens awoke from out a feverish
sleep, when lo! upon the air a wailing cry arose which

IN SEARCH OF LODGINGS.

13$

thrilled through every nerve. It was not a human creature.
N o ! it was a dog. Wiggens knew the voice—'twas his
dog! He roused Mrs. Wiggens, who got up, in the foolish
hope of washing and dressing, but, alas ! for human hope—
* Hope I fortune's cheating lottery !
Where for one prize a hundred blanks there be !'

The tooth-glass had no bottom to it, the jug was empty—
I mean of water (of dirt it had plenty)—and the towelhorse stood skeleton-like in a corner, unadorned with
linen, all of which, in the utter weariness of the previous
night's flitting, had been overlooked.
They looked for a bell. There was no bell, so female
Wiggens in her dressing-gown proceeded down the stairs,
when through the staircase-window she beheld her lord's
faithful animal huddled up and trembling in a corner of
the yard; he had been ejected by the landlady, who was
standing over him, with her leg poised in the air, about
to deliver another kick. It was arrested by the voice
of Mrs. Wiggens. A few words passed, and Mrs. W.
proceeded to the parlour, to find the fire unlit, and the
comfortable-looking room of the night now cold, tawdry,
miserable. Like the room, the lady in silk was now a
sloven in cotton. Strange as it may appear, Mrs. Wiggens's
anger vented itself upon her spouse's dog. He had certainly been the cause of our leaving our last apartments;
she demanded the dismissal of herself or the unfortunate
animal. He felt he must part from one, and decided on
his canine companion. Later on he called at the butcher's
to countermand the liver, but found his wife had already
done so; the man of mutton grinned an insinuating grin,
as much as to say, 'The gray mare's the better horse.'
Wiggens sternly repelled the base insinuation, and calling

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FROM LIFE.

his dog, who had been wagging his tail at the many
tempting morsels, departed. He followed his master from
the shop, and showed no more a pleased alacrity until
meeting with some friendly animal, who whispered in his
ear the last new dog-joke, he continued wagging it; it
was the last action' noticed by his disconsolate master, who
took him at once to a new home, after only six days'
proprietorship.
"Besides the disagreeables before spoken of, the new
landlady of the Wiggenses had certain singular notions
that might have been very excusable in an Australian
bushman, but appeared rather peculiar to more civilized
tastes. She had a disgust for table-coverings, or superfluous knives and forks; thought spoons unnecessary, and
one glass was quite sufficient for two or three to drink out
of, with other eccentricities, so after the third meal in the
house—a dinner of chops half-done in a dish of fat, cooked
by the aid of a dustpan—Wiggens paid a week's rent, and
once more packed up. He discovered a new abode under
the disadvantage of a pelting shower, a thick, grimy,
Manchester deposit of dirt on the pavement, and the usual
dull atmosphere. Mr. Wiggens was delighted with the
exterior of his new home as they approached it in a cab.
' So nice and clean; such a very quiet, respectable-looking
house/ It certainly was somewhat strange the amount
of attention from the neighbours on their arrival. Faces
might be seen through Venetian blinds, behind curtains,
and over wire blinds. The Wiggenses were a little surprised at the conduct of the new landlady; she was assisting her domestic up-stairs with the boxes, and amused
herself by pinching the girl, and little familiarities which
to the eyes of the onlooker seemed unusual. We will
pass over various little peculiarities, the evaporation of

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141

tea and sugar; we will not pause to reflect on the landlady's enforced familiarity or her history, which had been
confided to female Wiggens immediately on .male Wiggens
turning his back. Suffice it to say three days are gone,
and Sunday at length has arrived, and in the evening,
returning to his new residence, the gentleman, to his
surprise, found a great crowd surrounding the door.
People pointed to him as an object of curiosity as he
ascended the steps. On entering the room, what was
his horror to run plump into the arms of a policeman, to
have the bull's-eye of a second turned upon him, and to
feel himself dragged into the room by his wife, who at the
same time was calling loudly for protection. On peace
being sufficiently restored, he learnt the landlady had
been beating the landlord with a fire-shovel, and the landlord, not man enough to return the compliment, had
pitched into the domestic, who, five feet eight in her
stockings, and broad in proportion, had fled for protection
to female Wiggens, who stood four feet nothing in her
Balmorals. The latter lady, thinking discretion the better
part of valour, had fled into the street, calling lustily for
help, and had seized hold of an aged, decrepid veteran of
seventy, who, unfortunately for himself, happened to be
passing, and dragged him for protection into the fray,
whilst the cries of 'Murder!' grew fast and furious, he
contenting himself by exclaiming, 'God bless my soul,
ladies! Dear, deary me! What is the matter ? Is
anybody a-hurtin' anybody?' Then the police arrived,
followed by Wiggens.
" The worst of calamities must have an end; so at last
had this, by the intervention of Wiggens and the police.
The former informed the landlady that he and his wife
were quiet* respectable people, unused to such notoriety,

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FROM LIFE.

and must perforce retire from the scene of action on the
following Saturday. Then, foolishly dreaming the peace
of all parties restored, they indignantly retired supperless
to bed. The calm was only transient. Presently footsteps
echoed through the passage—more and more furious grew
the landlady's voice. Crash ! went the sound of breaking
crockery. Crash ! again—furniture. Bang! something
against the wall. The smell of fire was distinctly visible.
The Wiggenses pictured the house in flames, and themselves, in their night-gear, seeking for shelter in the cold,
dirty streets.. Out went Wiggins to remonstrate. Bang
came something at his head. He did not pause to argue
further, but returned to his room and locked the door. No
sleep for the unfortunate couple; not until morning did the
tempest subside, and then did they congratulate themselves
their night's expectations had not been realized, for not
only had the tigress of the house broken the furniture
and burnt the table-cloths, but even the Wiggens's dips
had not been held sacred—two pounds of them, besides
their tea and sugar, had been ruthlessly cast into the
flames.
"This was, of course, past endurance, and once more
the male Wiggens departs on his mission for lodgings.
Door after door reverberates beneath his knock; house
after house he enters; street after street he wanders
through, determined this time there shall be no mistake.
Of course it was raining—it had done nothing else for
four months; it is the chronic state of the weather in
Manchester. It would be useless to enumerate the grubby
childen, the maids of all work, the women who, children
in hand, answered the doors; some of the latter wiping
their dirty little hands on his trousers, or getting between
his legs, crying out,' Daddy, daddy/ at which the mothers

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143

smirk and look pleased, as much as to say,' Don't you
feel proud of being taken for a father ?' He does not in
the least; on the contrary, he knows not one throb of the
feelings of a 'daddy' has ever entered his breast. It
would be useless to tell of the communicative old ladies
who relate their history and that of their lodgers; suffice
it to say, that at length he succeeded in obtaining what
seemed to be very promising accommodation. Returning,
he paid another week's rent, and was last seen entering
the precincts of his new home, with the female Wiggens's
jar of onions in one hand, and his portmanteau in the
other, following the boxes which had preceded him.
Bearing good-will to all people except landladies, hoping
to spend, if not a merry, at least a comfortable, Christmas
Day on the morrow, and a happier New Year."
A singular and amusing experience occurred shortly
after I had joined the profession at Buxton in Derbyshire. I had gone down by coach to fulfil an engagement,
arriving on the 30th of August, when the town was
crowded with visitors. On my arrival, I was met by a
messenger from the manager, with a book of The Stranger
and Captain of the Watch, in both of which pieces I had
to play the second parts; the late Mr. George Vining was
the leading man. It necessitated my writing both out,
and studying them for performance the second night
afterwards. I found, to my dismay, hotels and lodgings
full, scores of people arriving in the town, who were unable
to get accommodation. As a last and miserable alternative,
I was obliged to find shelter in a little public-house called
the Bakers' Arms, where, at all events, I could set to
work, and get a bed for the night. The former necessitated a candle; it was brought me in a ginger-beer
bottle. The house was quiet, and all had gone to bed.

144

FROM LIFE.

I was busy at work, when the wretched dip spluttered a
little, gave a convulsive sort of shake, and down into the
bottle it fell, leaving me in darkness. There was not the
slightest hope of getting any more light, so reluctantly I
made my way up some stairs which the landlady had
pointed out as leading to my bedroom. It was very dark,
but the moonlight gleamed here and there through the
tiles in the roof; it was an attic, with no ceiling to it. I
was undressing when I thought I heard a movement, and
snores. There was a second bed in the room, and some
one in it. I listened—another snore, more musical,
evidently a second some one—a woman. I was too tired
to examine further, but got into bed, and was soon fast
asleep. In the morning, I saw another bed, that had been
slept in, but no washing accommodation—it was at the
tap in the yard below, where you could use the potatotub if fastidious. On going to the theatre, a member of
the company, a Mr. W. H. Stephens, known afterwards in
Australia, told me he had secured comfortable quarters for
me at a pretty cottage he and his wife were living in, just
outside the town. After rehearsal I very gladly paid my
score, and removed from the Bakers3 Arms. Some nights
afterwards I was sitting in the smoking-room of one of the
fashionable hotels with several Manchester friends and
other visitors, feeling myself an individual of some
importance, for I had made a very favourable impression
in the parts I had played. The voices of a man and
woman singing duets ^outside in the street had accompanied our talking for some time; at length the man came
in with his hat to collect the coppers or silver. He
walked round the room; every one put something in the
hat. At last he arrived opposite me, and immediately
commenced nodding and grinning in a very familiar

145

IN SEARCH OF LODGINGS.

manner. I had put my hand in my pocket, when he
said, " No, Culley, not from you. How is yer ? " I looked
at the fellow indignantly and amazed. " What the deuce
do you mean ?" " Mean! Oh, think o' that, gents. Here's
a cove—a brother pro.—who slept in the same room
t'other night with me and my wife, and now blowed if
hell own me."
My night companions of the Bakers' Arms were
accounted for. I collapsed.
This reminds me of another experience years afterwards,
at Oldham, near Manchester, only my night companions
were of a different nature. I had then risen to what is
known in theatrical parlance as a star, and was playing
six or twelve nights in different towns. I had sent my
agent on, whose business it was to get proper rooms for
me. The chief hotel in the place was too public-housey,
so he fixed upon some lodgings he was recommended to
as the most respectable in the place. There was a fair
sitting-room, a bedroom half filled by a huge four-poster,
with a quantity of old frowsy hangings, a carpet equally
frowsy, plenty of antimacassars, and a smell of dust and
age, to which a little air and sunlight would have done
a world of good. I soon discovered the woman's entire
ability in cooking consisted of a chop served in fat, or a
burnt-up rasher of bacon. Going to bed I could not sleep
for the smell of camphor. It was in the bed evidently,
and near my head. I was also apprised of sundry other
occupants in the bed besides myself. However, I fell
asleep at last, and in the morning, on seeing my landlady,
I asked her what was the meaning of the camphor.
" Sor, didst smell it ? "
"Smell it! I should think I did."
" It wur to keep the bugs from the face, that wur all."
L

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FROM LIFE,

Having some respect for my body, I gave them no
further chance, but departed the next day.
I have the recollection Of an experience in a charming
little cottage in the valley by the river, just outside
Matlock in Derbyshire. I was on a walking and sketching tour. Starting from Buxton, and ending at Kenilworth
Castle in Warwickshire, taking on my route the beauties
of Derbyshire, one of the most interesting and picturesque
of the English counties, I had decided to avoid hotels,
and take such accommodation as roadside cottages would
afford. The one in Matlock stood outside the town on
the banks of the river. On the other side the cliffs
several hundred feet high overhung the water; they
were covered in foliage save here and there great boulders
of rock, sandstone, and chalk stood out in bold and picturesque relief. It had been a sultry day, and after tea
I was out in the field sketching the cottage and cliffs.
They made a pretty picture; the former covered in rosebush, clematis, and honeysuckle; the latter forming a fine
dark foliaged background. After a time I heard the sound
of distant thunder rolling up the valley, and from a dense,
dark cloud which had gathered in the distance I could
see the forked lightning breaking through. As it came
nearer great drops of rain fell and drove me back into the
house. The; storm burst over the valley fearful in its
violence. Down came the rain in torrents; flash after
flash of vivid forked lightning; and the thunder rolled like
a thousand pieces of artillery, reverberating again and
again away down the valley. At one time I felt sure a
thunderbolt had fallen close to the cottage. I t was fearfully grand; the only storm I ever saw to equal it was
some years afterwards on the Danube. Looking out of
the window, I watched the river rising, until gradually

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147

it overflowed and came up surrounding the house, which
stood in a hollow. There was no one in it but the old landlady and myself. I heard her screaming, and descending
the stairs into the water at the foot, made my way to the
kitchen. There, standing on the table, screaming and praying, stood the gaunt, tall, wizened, gray-haired old woman;
she looked like a frenzied witch in the half darkness
and the sudden bursts of reflected fire of the lightning.
There was only one thing to do—to take her up-stairs; but
the question was, how was it to be done ? She was too
heavy to carry her in my arms, so I decided to get her on
to my back. The water was still rising, and there was
no time for delicate considerations, for she had lost all
self-control, so I pulled her down on to my shoulders,
clasped her arms round my neck, fixed her legs well to
my side, and succeeded in getting her up the narrow stairs
into my room. On arriving there the poor old soul fell on
her knees, and called down a good many blessings on my
head. I am afraid they did not do me much good—
however, she meant well. I felt more interested than
frightened, although fully expecting the frail foundations
of the wooden structure would give way, and we should
both be finding our way with the dtfbris down the rushing
river. Whilst the old woman gesticulated and prayed,
I watched at the window. After a time, gradually the
storm ceased, the rain and thunder passed away up the
valley, and the river fell almost as quickly as it had risen,
then the stars came out.
The next morning was fresh and beautiful. The people
of Matlock said they had not had a storm like it for many
years. Two persons had been struck dead, one near the
cottage, and several horses and cattle.
Wanting to find quiet and rest after a busy season in

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FROM LIFE.

Manchester, I thought I should obtain both at a place
called Runcorn, now I believe rather a busy town, then a
small, quiet, bargey sort of place. The best means of
reaching it was a canal-boat, towed by horses. It was at
the outlet of the canal, into the mouth of the river MerseyVery few strangers ever dreamt of going there, for it
had no particular attractions—half-a-dozen pretty country
walks, one to the ruins of an old castle, and another to the
Overton Hills.
On my arrival my clothes, moustache, and the fact of
my being a stranger, not connected with barges, made me
an object of common interest. I fixed on the front rooms
of a two-storey house, beautifully clean, fairly furnished,
and kept by a stout old lady nearly eighty, the widow of
one of the first Master Bargemen travelling on the canal.
Her cooking was limited to chop, steak, bacon, or small
joint.
There was a subscription library in the town with about
a hundred books, odds and ends, hardly one lot complete.
The subscription one shilling a quarter. This did not allow
of any very great extravagance on the part of the committee; their work we will suppose was not exhaustive.
The only acquaintance I made was the curate of the
parish church, who lived next door—a good-tempered,
rather soft and mindless young fellow. His chief object in
life was writing his Sunday sermon. He talked of it all the
week, and started on it the last thing Saturday evening.
When done it was nothing to be proud of—the same old
platitudes and hackneyed professions of faith, not the
ghost of an original idea in a cartload. However, he was a
pleasant fellow to talk with when you had nothing else
better to do; but my chief companion was my old landlady, the bargeman's widow. In the evening when all

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149

was cleared up, or, as she said, " made comfortable loike,"
she smoked a long clay, seated in an arm-chair by the side
of the kitchen fire. I got a supply of long clays at once,
and did the same in an arm-chair on the other side of the
fire. She told me old yarns, mostly of people long dead
in the neighbourhood. The thing that amused me most
was her prejudice against railways and railway travelling.
This was her description of first seeing a train—
" I tell 'ee, mister, it wer neight. I see'd it comin' wi'
smoke and flame, loike a movin' furnace. I calls out to
feither an' sisters, an' chaps in the village, they were all
fair dazed.
" ' The Lard save us/ says feither; ' it be com fra hell,
an' there's the devil in front a' drivin' on it/ "
She had only been to a large city twice in her life,
Manchester, about twenty miles away, and the last time
was the first Manchester Exhibition, when it was opened
by the Queen and I think Prince Albert.
" Did you see the Queen ? " I asked.
" Aye, meister, I did; ther wer nought in her to look
at; she wer just the same as other folk—an' she wore a
bonnet."
" Did you expect to see a crown ?"
" Aye, fur sure; what's the use o' bein' a Queen if yer
doan't wear a crown ? I'd expected to see her decked out
all over in goold an' jewels an' satins. Why, fur sure, it
might o' been our Mary, only Mary wer a deal better
lookinV
" How did you like the Exhibition ?"
" It wer a foine place o' shops, but I couldna mak' it
out. Our Mary, an' her bairn, an' my old man wer wi'
me. We just^ walks through the foine shops, an' sits
purselves down in the middle o' the chairs, wer the

150

FROM LIFE.

platform be, waitin' for Exhibition to commence. We takes
out our dinner arter waitin' no end o' time, when up
comes a swell in hVry. Says he, ' You munna sit an' eat
here/ ' Why munna we ?' says my old man. ' Cos it
ain't allowed/ says the chap; 'an' what are you sittin'
ther fur all this time ?' ' We be waitin' fur Exhibition
to commence/ I says; ' here be a good place/ If yer'd
seen him laugh. ' Why/ says he, ' yer ain't come to
a theater; yer've com' through the Exhibition/ 'What,
them shops ?' I says. We wer that taken back we
corned out that minute loike. Then I wouldna walk
about the streets wi' the noise an' the racket. I gets
back to my barge, an* says to my old man, ' Yer doan't
get me in Manchester agin in a hurry/
An' I've
never been ther since, meister."
With all the bigoted obstinacy of her class, she was a
cheery old body, and could tell many an old love or ghost
story, some of which I have since made use of. Tears
came into the old woman's eyes when I left, after some
five weeks' lodging with her; and although weary of the
absolute uninteresting dullness of the place, I was sorry
to lose sight of the old lady, as she sat and talked dimly
seen through a cloud of smoke from her long clay.
In the Vale of Llangollen the hotels were full; there
was no accommodation. Lodgings also appeared to be at a
discount. Weary and tired with a long and dusty journey,
I was wandering along the road with my wife, thinking
over the nuisance of a return by coach that night, when I
saw a fresh, good-looking young Welsh girl cleaning the
windows of a house, in which a card appeared " Apartments to let." I crossed the road, put on my best smile,
and asked her particulars. With a strong accent she
asked me to walk in. I did so, and found a very pretty.

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151

neatly furnished sitting-room with a beautiful view of the
Vale from the windows, and an equally nice bedroom. In
the sitting-room, to my surprise, was a piano and plenty
of music. We felt in clover. I did not mind about
the price, expecting it would be tolerably expensive,
judging by the charges at the hotels and other lodginghouses. When I asked, she dropped a curtsey and meekly
replied—
" Sure, sir, does your honour think three and sixpence a
week too much ?"
Pulling myself together after such an agreeable shock,
I asked, " Does that include the use of piano and music ?"
" Sure, certain indeed, sir, they all go together."
" Well," I replied, " under those circumstances I do not
consider it too much."
She was pleased, so were we, and I hurried away to get
the luggage. We were soon seated doing justice to the
most delicious newly-laid eggs and the nicest bread and
butter I ever tasted. It was a fine old time we had there;
lovely walks about the country. The girl and her brother
had only just come from the mountains. He had been
appointed schoolmaster; they were, as the reader may
suppose, " young indeed " to lodging-house keeping.
At the end of the week instead of three-and-six I gave
her a sovereign. Perhaps I was wrong; it was no doubt
the first step in opening her eyes, for she seemed to think
it a small fortune. I thought it little enough; but many
a traveller following us, no doubt paid dearly for the want
of experience we profited by.
" The injuries that they themselves procure,
Must be their school-masters."
We will now turn to a little experience of housekeeping

W2

FROM LIFE.

in Sydney. A friend of mine, a barrister, whom we will
call Smith, on his way from England suggested to me in
Melbourne, as he would be without his wife and had let
his house, as I should also be a bachelor, that for three
months of my stay in that city we should set up housekeeping together and take a furnished house.
" We shall have a good time together," he said.
I agreed that we undoubtedly should, and it was decided
he was to secure the house on his arrival and I would join
him. He fixed on a three storey, nine room furnished
house, owned by a doctor. The house had been to let for
three months. Arriving in Sydney I had to put up at
the Reform Club for a few days, as there had been some
little difficulty in getting suitable servants. At last a
middle-aged, plain-looking party was thought by the lady
members of my friend's family to be the very thing to suit
us. She was engaged, and we entered upon our establishment. My friend Smith took his traps there in the
afternoon; I drove to the house with my luggage about
eight o'clock in the evening. I knocked—no answer;
knocked again several times. At length the new domestic
condescended to attend.
" Are you the housekeeper engaged ?" I asked.
" Yes," came a thick voice out of the dark.
" Then why didn't you open the door before ? "
" Because I was in bed."
" In bed at eight o'clock ? "
" Yes, and time enough—the other gent's been and took
the key. I thought he'd let you in."
" Well, understand you do not go to bed at this time
another night."
I got my luggage in and paid the cab.
« Why the deuce don't you get a light ? "

IN SEARCH OF LODGINGS.

153

" You'll find some lucifers on the 'all table, and a candle;
I can't—I ain't dressed."
i
And away the female departed. I lighted a candle just
in time to see her disappear up the stairs, very lightly
and whitely clad, with an unsteady step; the stairs were
evidently not quite wide enough for her. I turned into
the dining-room; it looked very dreary, smelt musty; the
furniture fairly good, but old. From there I walked into
the back room. It was very lively, a few surgical things
about, some odd teeth under a shade, and a few bottled
specimens of reptile and insects. The drawing-room was
better, except for the wretched daubs of cheap oil paintings on the walls. I knew my friend would not be home
until late, so I thought I would have some supper. The
kitchen looked miserable and cheerless; some lively rats
scampered away out of my sight, and not a scrap could I
find.
" Deuced strange, this," I thought, as plenty of provisions had been ordered. I could not go out again as I
had no key; bed was the only thing left to me. I had not
been so early to bed for years. In the morning Smith
stood at my bedside in his night-garments, and looked
very comically miserable.
" Wybert, old boy, there's no breakfast."
" N o breakfast!"
" Not a scrap. I asked for a cup of tea; come down
to my room and see what the old devil has brought
me up."
I followed him, and we sat together on the edge of the
bed contemplating the concoction in the breakfast-cup.
It was a dirty brown liquid with blacks floating on the
top, and a couple of dead flies by way of variety. We
afterwards found out she had boiled the water in a dirty

154

FROM LIFE.

saucepan she had not even troubled to wash, and a teapot
the same, after three months' disuse. We must have
looked a picture in our despair; there was nothing for it
but to dress and to walk a mile and a half for our
breakfasts. Our treasure of a housekeeper, it seemed,
had arrived too late to take in the provisions, and everything had been taken back again to the shops. We were
assured she had lived in " good families," and she would
be all right, so we looked over these first difficulties, and
for a few days we got on fairly well; but my confidence
was shaken on hearing her abuse an unfortunate man who
had brought some new crockery we had purchased.
"She'd let them fellows," meaning myself and Smith,
" know she wasn't a porter. 'Elp 'im carry the crockery !
she'd see 'im and them further first. They'd think she was
come to be a bootblack next."
As our boots had not been cleaned since we had been
in the house we had not fallen into this mistake. About
the middle of the second week the cook arrived, a short,
fat, red-faced Irishwoman of about thirty-five—the ladies
said "just the thing to suit us." Two days after her
arrival, before dinner, as we were seated at the table
waiting, a breeze sprang up in the kitchen between the
two; it increased to a gale, the gale to a hurricane; the
cook and housekeeper were at it hammer and tongs.
Smith broke the bell-rope; I spoke my mind from the top
of the stairs. At last dinner came up, everything spoilt.
The cook entered into an explanation: the housekeeper did
the same, both at the same time. About the latter there
was a suspicious thickness of speech. Alas! it was
accounted for when we came to examine the beer and
spirit store. She got her notice and her week's wages,
and as she left in a cab, I happened to arrive at the door,

IN SEARCH OF LODGINGS.

155

She gave me her blessing in strong language. I was no
gentleman.
The greatest care was to be taken in the choice of the
next domestic ; we would not trust altogether to the ladies
Smith'; we had a say in it, and of course choose one younger
and better-looking. For the first two weeks we were
highly pleased, and prided ourselves on our selection. I
certainly noticed on two or three occasions our new
treasure appeared to be a little unsteady on her legs.
" No doubt, poor thing, she was tired; she was too young
and too good-looking to indulge," I thought, although I
noticed our beer and spirits evaporated quickly.
" Ah, it's that Bridget the cook; I suspected her," &c.
Poor Bridget! I was away, and Smith returning home
one night rather late, almost fell over a body in the
passage.
" Good heavens !" he . thought," somebody dead, and
quickly lighting his candle examined the^ body. It was
the good-looking new servant dead—I mean dead-drunk.
Bridget was summoned from her bed, and came down in
her night-garments, with a shawl thrown over her
shoulders, thinking the house was on fire. Between them
they carried the beauty up to her bed; she was discharged
in the morning with a week's wages in her pocket. The
only fault with Bridget was the rapidly increasing household bills, acting as treasurer, I had to look over. They
were so confusing too; and if I asked for an explanation,
I got it, in such a rich brogue, and with so much palaver, it
only made matters worse; so each time I let it stand over.
By this time we had got sick of the bother and dulness
of the house; although our t e r m w a s not out for some
weeks, we decided to take another in Double Bay, close to
where Smith's yacht ^ras moored. This would be so

156

FROM LIFE.

convenient, and had so much to recommend it. Everything
was packed over night, and as Smith, Q.C. was engaged in
Court, I was to superintend the removal next day. Sending a cart with the heavier things, I engaged two cabs, and
followed with the small things, and one big thing, the cook
Bridget, who, to do honour to the occasion, had put on her
Sunday clothes—a tight-fitting green dress, a large display
of crimson feather in her hat, and a great amount of
imitation gold jewellery, the chain round her neck especially ; to speak mildly, she looked striking. Now it so
happened that, unknown to me, a lady and her daughter
lived in the terrace house next door known to my wife;
naturally inquisitive, they peered over the blinds, on the
look-out for their new next-door neighbours. Judge of their
surprise when they saw me arrive, and in the next cab
" the brazen creature " I brought with me.
"They never could have suspected me of such a thing.
I was the last man/' &c. Then they thought of " poor
Mrs. Reeve," and came to the conclusion she ought to
know " my goings on," and " it was only kindness to tell
her." In the meantime I was innocently getting the house
in order, until I was called to order by a letter from my
wife in Melbourne. Of course she was surprised at my
conduct; this came of trusting me, &c. Fortunately I was
able to explain matters, and then settled down for the
" good time " which had not yet come. After two or three
weeks I felt convinced we were keeping all Bridget's
friends and relations—the amount of provisions and liquor
we consumed was something phenomenal; bills increasing
every week; and the strange thing was, at home or not, we
seemed to eat and drink the same amount. Then I
doubted her cleanliness, and going into the kitchen one
day when she was out of it, and seeing her stockings

IN SEARCH OF LODGINGS.

15*

boiling in the saucepan she did our potatoes or joints in,
I was convinced her habits were peculiar, and avoided all
boiled things in future. Smith was going away on Circuit
for a few days. I had caught a wretched cold in the
draughty house, and could not stand being there by myself, so I decided to clear out, and left Bridget in full possession to feed her relations as she liked, but on board wages.
When Smith returned he followed my example, and so for
about a fortnight Bridget remained sole mistress of all she
surveyed. We both retired to the Club for about a week,
then resolved on a new venture there was little doubt
about. A friendly medico made us the offer of the upper
part of his old house, having gone to a new one; he only
used the lower rooms to meet his patients. We partly
furnished the rooms, and to complete our felicity, Smith
engaged a well-dressed, sleek-looking young Chinaman as
our valet; we had had enough of female servants. Smith
was convinced he had found a gem, and as he was called
away on Circuit, I had the Oriental to myself. He was
occasionally in want of a sovereign, which I gave him in
payment of his wages, as I thought, but I found out
afterwards he had told me a lie, and he had drawn all that
was due to him before my friend left. I soon afterwards
returned to Melbourne, and then received a letter from
Smith to say the Chinese gem had disappeared, taking
with him his dress suit and what other clothes and
jewellery he could lay his hands on. No wonder the fellow
dressed well.
Our partnership in housekeeping ended. I need hardly
say we had no "good time," and the experiment was not a
success. Smith again tried his hand, and engaged two
Indian men-servants; every one knew what treasures they
were. They robbed him right and left, and he then gave

158

FROM LIFE.

up the idea, let his house—a third one he entered upon—
and retired to the bosom of his family.
We both before this had strong views respecting housekeeping and servants, and were in the habit of expressing
our opinions and dilating ~ on the duties of mistresses.
We have since sung small and avoid the subject.
Talking of servants reminds me of a friend in Australia,
who happened to be present in the drawing-room reading,
when a girl applied for a situation vacant in the house.
Servants had been for a long time the source of his wife's
misery; little else was spoken of; the subject had become
even second to the children. The girl was very ugly, and
made all sorts of stipulations; she must have Wednesday
afternoon, Saturday evening, Sunday; she could not.wash,
clean grates, wait on the governess, and a dozen other
things. At last he looked up over his book and said—
" You are quite right, my girl; we don't want a servant
to work, but we want one to look at, and I'm d
d if
you'll do for that."
The girl departed.

GHOSTS.
I AM not following in the footsteps of Ibsen. It is not the
hereditary ghost, or the curse of disease, descending from
parent to child, as the penalty of sin, I am going to write
about. Why " the sins of the father " should be visited on
the child is something of a mystery, however physically to
be accounted for. The ghosts of my present paper are
phantoms, though I do not believe in them with the
superstitious sense of many, I freely admit I cannot
account for or explain away mysterious appearances we
hear so frequently vouched for. I am bound to acknowledge a supernatural agency in the world beyond ordinary
comprehension, and I try to reconcile my doubts with the
theory that an extraordinary sympathy often exists between
certain minds or bodies, and many of the stories we read
about or are told of may be explained by this fact. Death
and danger to those we love is sometimes revealed by a
mysterious magnetic influence—space is annihilated—the
messenger floats on the wings of sympathetic imagination,
and the pain or loss without contact with the reality is
realized. It is an unsatisfactory conclusion; yet I must
reject the ordinary theory of spiritualism which some
reconcile with these ghostly phantoms.

160

FROM LIFE.

I am going to tell of a few visitations which I have
heard described by thoroughly reliable persons. The first
is a story from an old lady living at Ryde, in the Isle of
Wight, who told it with the absolute confidence of relating
a fact to which she was a personal witness. When a girl
of nineteen she was engaged to be married to a young
fisherman, who lived with his father at the back of the
island, near Black Gang Chine. The sister of the young
man had been her school-fellow and companion, and as it
was within a few weeks of her marriage with the girl's
brother, she had gone down to stay a few days at their
cottage. The cottage was in a deep gully extending
inland .from the coast a little to the north of Black Gang
Chine. It stood by itself, protected by high cliffs at the
back and in front. It had four rooms, two on the ground
floor, and one small attic under the thatched roof above,
and a small outbuilding for the storage of wood and
boat-gear.
In front of the cottage there was a garden, with lowT,
green-painted railings, and a gate opposite the front door.
Before the gate an old watercourse made its way to the
sea.
One bright autumn afternoon during her visit, she and
the fisherman's daughter walked down to the boat to
assist in the departure of father and son on a fishing
excursion. It was their intention to remain away for a
day or two. The boat was a strong, heavily-built craft,
such as fishermen are in the habit of using off the English
coast, fitted to live through the rough gales they have to
encounter. All hands set to work to get the nets in
order, to stow away the food, and launch the boat. At
length she floated, the sails were made trim, and with
waving hands and an affectionate " good-bye " they started.

GHOSTS,

161

The two girls watched the boat until, rounding a headland,
she was lost to sight.
They had no thought of fear, as the father was a
thorough-going old salt, who had faced all weathers both
as boy and man. His father had been a fisherman before
him, living in the same old cottage. His wife dying early,
he was left with the son and daughter; the former followed
in his footsteps, the latter attended to all the domestic
duties of his little household.
The two girls as they walked back to the cottage talked
of the future, building up the usual castles in the air, of
happy contentment in their humble lives. Eeaching the
cottage they at once set to work putting it in order, for
the men always left work behind to do. When everything
was tidy they sat down talking and singing under the
little rose-covered porch. As the gloaming fell, far away
at sea they saw a dark storm-cloud rising, the blue of the
sea grew darker, the wind came sweeping up the Chine,
and as the last rays of the setting sun fell upon the ocean,
the waves began to rise quickly, and the white crests
turned to molten gold. At first a few large drops fell, then
the rain came down in torrents, the electric clouds broke,
and vivid lightning lit up the dark gloom of the night.
For hours it lasted; the two girls were sitting in the
cottage room, thinking of the father and the son they had
parted from. The outside shutter had broken from its
fastening, and was hurled from time to time with dangerous
force by the wind against the window.
The fisherman's daughter, the more courageous of the
two,—-she was far more familiar with the storms on the
coast,—opened the front-door and went out to fasten the
shutter back, leaving her companion, half fainting with
fear, kneeling on the floor. It was about eleven o'clock;
M

162

FROM LIFE.

the rain and wind appeared to lull for a minute, and from
behind a black cloud the moon was just appearing. The
girl closed the shutter, and was returning to the door,
when immediately outside the gate there stood the outline
of a cloud-like ghostly figure, white and spectral, pointing
to the sea. She stood paralyzed for a moment, then
advanced. As she advanced it receded, and as she reached
the gate it " vanished into air." At that moment a vivid
flash of lightning lit up the sea, and a loud shriek came
from the girl in the cottage. Going in she found her
companion speechless, pointing to the window at the back.
She was transfixed with horror, then, fainting with fear,
she clung to the fisherman's daughter. When able to
speak she described a figure and face, like that seen in
front of the cottage, appearing like a shadow at the
window. When the old lady arrived at this part of the
narrative she said—"I saw it, sir, just as plainly as I see
your face now/' She rejected at once my suggestion that
it might have been an optical delusion, attributable to
fear. She argued they could not both have been deceived.
Besides, the phantom was still fixed on both their memories
as vividly as five-and-twenty years ago.
Feeling certain at once that something had happened to
the two fishermen, they waited and watched for hours;
then crept up-stairs and lay down upon the bed. After
daylight had broken, a knock came to th^ front door, and
the fisherman's daughter hastened down. An old fisherman was there, a friend of her father's. She at once
guessed his errand. He was near to the boat of her father
when it foundered in the storm; he saw it go down, and
heard their cries for " help "; but the sea was too rough to
save them. The hour it happened was eleven o'clock—
the hour they had seen the phantom.

GHOSTS.

163

Another strange tale was told me of the sea by a gentleman holding one of the highest appointments in the
Australian .colonies. He related it as occurring to a
relative of his own, the captain of a man-of-war in the
Imperial service. One night the captain had been examining the chart in his cabin to ascertain the exact
position of the ship and some rocks, when he was called
away to the deck. After some little time he returned,
and to his amazement saw seated in the chair he had left,
looking upon the chart, the indistinct figure of a man, who
appeared to be in distress, as if exhausted from the sea,
and his shirt was torn and dirty. The face was starved,
pale, haggard. Before the captain could recover from his
surprise the form was gone. Doubting his senses, he
walked across the cabin to the chair. The vision or
phantom had left, and his eyes falling on the chart, he saw
a small red cross, which he was quite sure was not there
before. He looked at it, and it had the appearance of
blood. The face, figure, and strange occurrence haunted
him, and at length he resolved to retrace his course to the
spot to which the cross pointed, feeling certain the warning
was not given without reason. His vessel arrived at the
spot just as morning broke; he had kept on deck all night,
and looking out he saw something floating on the waters.
There he found a poor wrecked sailor lashed to a piece of
wreck, dying of 'exhaustion. The man had the face of the
vision of his cabin. This instance is the more singular as
there could be no natural sympathy between the captain
of the man-of-war and the strange sailor.
I heard some years ago another story of a death warning,
and it was told me by a relation of the lady to whom it
occurred. She was the wife of an officer engaged with the
army before Sebastopol. She was living in London at the

164

FKOM LIFE..

time, and had been spending the evening with her sister
and some friends. It had been a merry one, with singing
and dancing, and she had for a time ceased to think of her
husband's danger. She had not been so happy for many
months, and had been made more so by a letter received
that morning, in which he said the advance trenches would
soon be completed, and the war over; the town must fall.
He had fortunately escaped so far with little sickness,
and without a wound.
She was young, pretty, fascinating, and a great favourite
in society. A friend drove her home rather late in the
evening. The moment she entered the house a strange,
lonesome, dead feeling came upon her—a nameless dread
of an impending sorrow. Every step she took in the dull
dark hall and up the stairs filled her with horror, as if
approaching it. Her maid was sitting half-asleep in the
bedroom, the fire was nearly out. Rousing up the girl,
she told her to rekindle it, and light the candles, and then
sat down, assisted by the girl to prepare for bed. Feeling
it was quite useless going there, as she could not sleep, she
pulled her dressing-gown round her, and sending the girl
to bed, threw herself into an easy-chair before the fire.
She sat thinking of her husband, until tired and worn-out
and weary, her eyes closed in a kind of half-sleep. A
slight noise roused her. She looked round, and from the
end of the room near the door, out of the darkness, in a
strange shadowy mist, she saw her husband, sword in hand ;
his face was pale, bloody, and his eyes, though looking
fondly on her, had the strange glazed far-away look of
eternity, which sometimes accompanies a violent death.
With a loud cry she rose, and rushed towards him; the
vision was gone, and she fell paralyzed with fear upon the
floor. The servant rushed in, and for hours she remained

GHOSTS.

165

Insensible.
Nothing could calm or appease her. At
length a letter came from a brother officer. Her husband
had fallen leading a night attack on an advanced Russian
post, and so far as could be ascertained it must have been
just about the time she had seen him.
This story reminds me of another somewhat similar, I
read some years back, and I think it is told by the Eev.
Julian Young in his reminiscences. A very ^charming
young girl, who was engaged and devotedly attached to an
officer away with his army in Belgium, under the Duke of
Wellington, was playing and singing at an evening party,
at which the narrator was present. She had a beautiful
voice, and after a good deal of persuading, sat down to the
piano, and sang a ballad—if I remember rightly it was
1
The Banks of Allan W a t e r ' ; the subject is a girl
deserted by her lover soldier. She had just reached the
last verse, when her face suddenly changed to a look of
unspeakable horror, a loud cry burst from her lips, and she
fell insensible from her seat. For several days she remained in a state of stupor. When able to recall what
had taken place, she told her mother she had seen her
lover struck down to death by a French cavalry soldier.
Her mother tried to reason with her, but the news arrived
in a few days that it was perfectly true; on that evening,
and in the manner the poor girl described, at Quatre Bras,
her lover had been cut down.
A lady told me the following singular circumstance
occurring to her:—She was travelling in America with a
theatrical company, having left her mother in a city some
three hundred miles away. One night she felt greatly
depressed, and remarked it to some of the ladies in the
company; she felt quite certain something was about to
happen to her. Going back to the hotel she could not eat
her supper, and went to bed, and lay there uncomfortably

166

FROM LIFE.

thinking and dozing. A church clock struck two; it
roused her, and a few minutes afterwards she heard what
seemed to be her mother's voice, in sudden pain. She
looked up, and in the moonlight, between the window and
the bed she saw distinctly a shadowy form—the outline of
a veiled figure with her mother's face, looking on her in
sorrow. She got out of bed. It vanished. Feeling convinced her mother was dead, or dying, she packed up a
few things early in the morning, and writing a short note
of explanation to her manager, started for home by the
first train. When she arrived her mother was dead. They
said she had died about two o'clock, calling upon her
daughter's name.
Certainly the most dramatic ghost story I ever heard
was connected with an old manor-house in the North of
England, close to the border land of Scotland. The house
was pointed out to me in a state of ruinous decay. It had
not been inhabited for many years. It was situated in a
valley, with grand old hills near, and trees in the wild
park lands centuries old. The tale was this:—About a
hundred years ago the lord of the manor died leaving two
sons—one, the younger, a reckless spendthrift. The eldest
inherited the estate, and married a young, beautiful, and
high-spirited girl. One day he was brought home dying;
he had been shot by the brother accidentally when firing
at a stag. It was more [than suspected—indeed believed
for certain—that it was not accidental, but a deliberate
murder. There was no proof, however. Failing male
issue the estate reverted to the brother. After behaving
in the most shameful manner to the young widow, denying
her every comfort, he brought to the house a low-bred
creature he had married, who not only took every opportunity of insulting the unfortunate widow, but encouraged
two young ruffianly boys she had to do the same. It cul-

GHOSTS.

167

minated in a terrible quarrel, when the widow, unable to
control her feelings, accused him of the murder of his
brother. He knew the poor creature had nowhere to go,
but he turned her out of the house in a cold winter's night>
when the ground outside was covered deeply with snow.
As she left the house she uttered a bitter curse, and declared her spirit would haunt the house, and the generations
of his family that should inhabit it; that death and ruin
should fall upon them; and that the house from that night
should be doomed to fall into decay. Her dead body was
found in the park the next day. Her prophecy was fulfilled ; her figure every night passed from the room, down
the stairs, and out at the door. The owner, haunted by a
constant dread, night after night stood with pistol ready,
and several times fired at the phantom, but the bullet
passed through air only. He died in delirium, the widow
was drowned by a flood, the two boys led a wild life for a
time, and with drink when in the house tried to drown
the horror of the spectre. They squandered their fortunes,
the estate was sold, the new owners soon shunned the
house as haunted, and it was left as I saw it, quickly
falling to decay.
Ghost stories have sometimes an amusing as well as a
strange or horrible side. When playing a tour in America,
acting night after night, sometimes eight times a week,
twice on the Wednesdays and Saturdays, the very trying
part of Fosco in the play of The Woman in (Whitei a
singular circumstance occurred.
It had been very weary work rehearsing and playing
with strange and often inefficient companies in each town,
travelling some thousands of miles in bad weather. I
arrived in Philadelphia, worn out in body and in mind.
After a Wednesday matink I had gone back to the hotel,
and flung myself on the bed to rest a little before playing

168

FEOM LIFE.

in the evening. I fell into a kind of half-sleep, from
which I was suddenly aroused by what I thought was
a sigh. I looked up, and gazing upon me, with a compassionate look, was the face of an old lady, who, in my
childhood, had been* very fond of me. I had never thought
of her for years, and could not for my life have described
her. She wore the little corkscrew curls, poke bonnet, short
waist, and dress with what I think used to be called legof-mutton sleeves. I rubbed my eyes, started up, and
it was gone. Although convinced it was caused by a
weary brain and body, I wanted some one to tell it to, for
the face, haunted me—some one who would sympathize
with me, and say, "All nonsense," confirming my own
disbelief in the supernatural. At last I fixed on a most
respectable and kindly old lady in the company, who
played Madame Fosco, during a short wait I had before
going on for the last act. "Ah," I thought, "kind old
soul! you are the motherly sort of woman to give me
comfort." She listened attentively; then a feeling of
horror came over her face as she said—" Oh, Mr. Reeve,
you don't mean to say you saw that I" " Yes," I replied,
with a little trepidation at her look. " Oh, my dear, how
dreadful!" « Dreadful ?" I replied. « Why so ?" " Oh,
Mr. Keeve, that is just what President Lincoln saw before
he was murdered." The reader may easily imagine the
consolation and comfort the good old lady gave me.
There was a story of a haunted churchyard in a village
in Worcester rather amusing. For nights a ghost, form
and face like the devil, but white instead of black, had
been seen in the churchyard* chiefly over the grave of a
well-known drunkard and great scamp, whose wicked
deeds were the subject of gossip by the fireside of many a
cottage on a winter's night. The white devil became all
at once the talk of the country side, the churchyard

GHOSTS.

169

was shunned at night, and the village children feared to
go through in daylight. At length two fellows, pot-valiant
with drink at the ale-house, made a bet they would go
that night to the churchyard and shoot the demon. After
loading their guns, they departed, to the admiration and
wonder of the rustics. As they neared the churchyard,
their courage descended a little to their boots, but they
were determined to go through with it, and so concealed
themselves behind a low stone wall, every now and then
seeking fresh Dutch courage in the refreshment they had
brought with them. At length they heard footsteps;
they looked over, and there was the devil safe enough
approaching the grave; the body was hidden by the long
grass and nettles. They were trembling with fear, but
one man at length managed to fire, and more by luck than
aim evidently hit the demon, for down he fell with an
inhuman cry. The two fellows ran back to the village as
fast as their legs could carry them, and told the story, and,
like old fat Jack Falstaff and the robbers, made the
most of it. For the time they were heroes, but the next
morning a party was told off to go and look if his satanic
majesty had left any bits of himself behind, when to their
dismay they found a poor white donkey dead, belonging to
an old man in the village, who, attracted by the extra fine
growth of thistles about the village scapegrace's grave, had
nightly escaped from his yard, and gone there to have an
extra feed.
We all probably have seen haunted houses, and it is
very singular how very simply a house may be condemned,
when the mysterious sounds heard may be very easily
explained if people only had the courage to face the
mystery, and not allow their imaginations to run away
with them. It's the old story, " give a dog a bad name,"
&c. I know of an instance when a family living near

no

FROM LIFE.

Notting-hill, London, were made miserable for months by
the most mysterious sounds coming from a room at the
top of the house. It appeared at times to be like small
feet, at others a strange rasping sound, and when the
house was very quiet, it could be distinctly heard even
in the lower rooms. The servants one after the other
gave warning and left; the ladies of the family refused at
any time to be left alone. Imagination conjured up
sometimes footsteps coming down the stairs, and a hundred
other mysterious movements. The master of the house
was as frightened as the rest, and although his own
property, he determined to leave it. Fortunately, before
doing so, he had invited a young lady to stay with his
daughters, who had lived in the country, hardly knew
what fear was, and did not believe in ghosts. She declared
she would find out the mystery, and one night they quietly
waited. Presently the strange noise began. Taking the
candle, she followed the sound, whilst the ladies of the
house sat trembling with fear below. She traced it to
a small room, used as a lumber-room. Summoning all
her courage, she boldly unlocked the door and walked in.
There was a scuffle, some squeaking, a metallic sound
of objects falling, then a scampering of some creatures
across the floor. They were rats. Going to the corner
of the room, she found under old furniture a lot of biscuittins, containing crumbs and the remains of mouldy biscuits. The rats had found them out, and had eaten
through the tin in several cases where they could not get
in in any other way. What with this, fighting over their
plunder, and getting in and out, they had proved ghosts
to the peace of the family for some time, and had very
nearly caused the house to be deserted.
A very amusing instance of how any one may be deceived
occurred to two lady friends of mine living near Melbourne.

GHOSTS.

171

One was a spiritualist; the other was not so. The spiritualist one evening was in the city, the servant was out,
and the lady at home; late in the evening she heard as
she thought a peculiar noise in front of the cottage, and
opening the door, looked out into the darkness, when to
her amazement she saw the face of her friend, pale, with
gleaming eyes, looking towards her from the gate. A look,
and it was gone. Fear-stricken, she closed the door, and
anxiously waited, convinced some evil must have befallen
her companion. However, her friend came back all
right, and they talked the strange vision over. "Very
singular," said the spiritualist. " I don't remember projecting a sympathetic object about that time." The next
day I was told of this, and tried to argue against the
probability of such a thing, but was indignantly silenced;
both were sure of the fact, the one who absolutely saw
it, and the other who firmly believed in spirits, and that it
must bode her no good; probably death or misfortune.
She was inclined to make her will, settle her affairs, and
be prepared for the worst at once. Two nights after
the same lady was left in the house, and she nervously
listened for a second visitation, as her friend had told her
it would most probably come again, for spirits were very
seldom satisfied with one visitation. She heard the sound,
and summoning up all her courage opened the door.
There was the spectre sure enough, the white face, the
gleaming eyes, the white dress of her friend.
With
resolution she made one step, when in darkness it vanished,
or rather scampered down, for it was a neighbour's old
white tom-cat sitting on the white gate-post, who had
lately made " night hideous" in courting the lady's tabby.
Her spiritual friend, however, refused to believe in the cat,
and stuck to the ghost.

MADNESS.
" She look'd on many a face with vacant eye,
On many a token without knowing what;
She saw them watch her without asking why,
And reck'd not who around her pillow sat ;
Not speechless, though she spoke not; not a sigh
Relieved her thoughts; dull silence and quick chat
"Were tried in vain by those who served; she gave
No sign, save breath, of having left the grave."—BYRON.

THE above lines were never more painfully or truthfully
realized than in the case of a beautiful and favourite
London actress, one whom the London Times called " the
charming, the ox-eyed Miss S
," ox-eyed from the
peculiarly large, lustrous beauty of her eyes. After her
marriage with a London doctor of large practice, she
retired from the stage and remained off several years, but
the old passion at last returned, and made her restless and
unhappy. Charles Reade, the novelist, a friend of the
doctor's, was taking out one of his pieces with a company.
It was arranged she should play the leading part. At
work again, she was happy. The tour lasted some months,
when she returned and again took up the control of the
doctor's household, and settled down for about two years.
Then all the restlessness came back, and it was necessary

MADNESS.

173

to give her a change. I was writing a new comedy drama
called Won at Last, which I had arranged to produce at
the Charing Cross Theatre—now Toole's—and I arranged
that she was engaged to play the leading part. In the
second week of its production, one evening she came to
me just before entering on the stage, and said, " I feel so
very strange, Wybert, my head is so bad—I feel so
strange." Thinking it was only a little faintness, from the
small, wretchedly close dressing-rooms, I replied, " It will
be all right; don't give way; open the window when you
go back to the dressing-room." She got through the
performance; her husband's carriage came for her, and took
her home.
We had a suite of rooms in the same house as old
friends. When I got back my wife said, " H
is very
ill, she is having a warm bath in our bath-room."
Presently she came out, and sat on the rug before the fire,
leaning her head against my knee and looking into the
fire with her fine eyes larger, and more lustrous than ever.
She talked very little, and all at once got up, said " goodnight," and we heard her going up-stairs to bed. A little
after daylight next morning the Doctor knocked at our
bedroom door, and said H
was very ill, he was going
for Dr. Gull and Dr. Wilks. My wife hurried up-stairs,
and found her suffering, and wandering in her mind.
The doctors could not come to any decision about the
case, but by the following morning symptoms of insanity
began to appear, and for the next week she did nothing
but talk, with the exception of the very few hours when
from exhaustion she slept—rolling her handkerchief up.
Her chief theme was addressing it as Jesus Christ, wildly
speaking on religion; and from some distinctness and
connection it became an incoherent gabble.

174

FROM LIFE.

It was terribly distressing to hear this going on night
and day. She refused food; it had to be forced down her
throat to keep her alive. Servants, nurses, every one in
the house was tired out; then she got a little better, and
was allowed to go down into the drawing-room. My wife,
to whom she was greatly attached, was sitting with her
alone, when suddenly she made an attack upon her, and
tried to get at her eyes to tear them out. After the
alarm the servants rushed in, and securing H
, took
her to her bedroom. It was impossible to continue in
this way, and I explained to the doctor it would be
necessary for us to leave. It was hard on him if we did
so, as there would be no lady to preside over household
matters, so it was decided his wife should be placed in a
private asylum. By this time loquacity had given place
to sullen brooding silence, and an absolute refusal and
resistance to taking food. This could of course be better
treated at the asylum. Gradually all human attributes
left the poor girl. Her appetite returned, and she became
merely animal, and worse, for she had no other instincts
than to eat, sleep, and tear her clothes or anything else to
pieces. So the pretty, fascinating, clever young actress
lived for years, clad in the coarsest and strongest garments,
and her thick shoes locked on to her feet.
About three years after the commencement of her
illness, it was thought advisable to remove her for more
perfect treatment to Bethlehem, or as Londoners call it,
Bedlam. A private arrangement was made for her there.
A few generations back this institution stood a monument
of cruelty and ignorance, where poor afflicted wretches
were treated and exhibited as wild beasts; this had
changed to probably the most humane and perfect system
in the world. I had promised the resident physician to

MADNESS.

175

dine with him, and give the patients a reading entertainment some time before poor H
was sent there. I
had to fulfil my promise, and a painful experience it was.
I took my place on a platform erected at the end of the
large entertainment room, when looking round I saw,
sitting apart from the rest, very near me, with an attendant, my dear old friend, so changed. The great expressive
eyes were there, but they wildly stared into vacancy. All
the charms of girlhood gone; her face looked bloated; her
fair complexion yellow. On the several times I had seen
her before she had failed to know me, and I felt so far
happy on this occasion that her mind could not respond.;
but strangely enough, when reading a pathetic passage
from Tennyson, instinctively my eyes were drawn to her,
for it seemed feeling, consciousness, had for a moment
returned. She looked at me; the eyes lost their vacancy
and filled with tears, just as a gleam of memory seemed to
struggle through the darkness of her brain; she got up a
little way from her chair and stretched her arms to me.
I stopped, and could not resist the impulse to step towards
her and call her by her Christian name. She smiled; the
eyes were full of tears. As suddenly her features relaxed,
the spell was broken, and with an idiotic laugh she fell
back into her chair. I do not know how I finished the
readings. I never saw her again. I only know from her
husband through all the sixteen or seventeen years she
lived in asylums, it was the last gleam of intelligence ever
seen in her. I read of her death with an accompanying
obituary notice since I have been in Australia.
There is often something humorous, something we
cannot help laughing at, in the saddest of human afflictions. The most extraordinary mania I ever heard of,
with the exception of that of the late Lord Dudley, who,
it is said, occasionally fancied himself with child, and had

176

FROM LIFE.

the clothes mad.e for the baby, was that of a man in New
Zealand. The circumstances were related to me by a
gentleman in office as Minister of Justice, at the time I
speak of. One day a man by the name of King, keeping
an hotel just outside the town of Wellington, called to
see him on most important business. An appointment
was made for the next day, when King explained it was
of the utmost importance that he should have five
hundred pounds, and offered to give bills on the Admiralty
of England for that amount.
" But," asked the minister, " what possible claim can
you have on the Admiralty ?" taking the matter seriously,
as he had known the man for some years as a respectable
publican, and had not heard anything of his insanity.
" Well," replied the man, " I shall have a most important
claim on the English Admiralty. You have observed no
doubt how much brighter the stars and planets are in the
northern hemisphere than they are here in the southern;
in fact here they are disgracefully dirty. Now I have sold
my hotel, made my wife and daughter pack up their
things and get ready. The money I have got for the
hotel will enable me to pay for a balloon, a good large one.
I want another five hundred for oil, chamois leather, and
lots of things."
" What are you going to do with all this ?"
" Do ? Why, I am going up in a balloon to polish up
the stars, and oil the axles of the planets, that's what I
am going to do; it's necessary for the commerce of the
colonies, and will make a world of difference."
My friend found the man had really sold his hotel,
turning his wife and daughter out, who were in great
trouble. Not being able to get rid of him, he advised him
to consult Commodore Wilson of the Wolverene, who
happened to be in the harbour at the time. The Com-

MADNESS.

177

modore was very amazed; at last seeing the man was mad,
he recommended him to apply to the Governor, which the
poor fellow did. The Governor had him taken to the
asylum.
I was told the other day of a woman who insisted upon
it she was a man, and the only way they could keep her
quiet was to let her wear men's trousers; her great cause
of complaint afterwards was the indelicacy of her being
kept with other women.
A man was pointed out to me at the Asylum in Lincoln
who believed he was the motive power that moved the
world, and nothing enraged him more than for any one to
go near him, in case of breaking the machinery of which
he was composed.
The most singular thing is the shrewdness and sense of
many mad people, so long as they keep off the particular
mania. The Resident Physician of t)ie Gloucester County
Lunatic Asylum was a friend of mine, and staying with
him several times on my journeys to Wales I had the
opportunity of seeing this. On two occasions I gave a
reading entertainment to about 400 of the patients, with
a brass band composed of lunatics to play occasionally, at
my side. I was astonished at their attention and appreciation, generally applauding at the time I should expect,
and had heard it from sane people. I could not help
feeling amused at one old lady immediately in front of me.
Her mania was vanity. She had been a governess, but
was of a good county family. I slaall never forget her
costume—a faded, old-fashioned silk dress, with very short
waist and sash; a collar of lace many generations old ; her
hair done up in corkscrew curls, with an old feather and
faded flowers stuck in i t ; white gloves very old and dirty;
and an old opera-glass with one glass in it, which she
continually directed at me. The airs she gave herself
N

178

FROM LIFE.

were indescribable, yet in speaking to her on the poets,
she talked well and sensibly until something was said that
touched upon her weakness; then she talked wildly about
her ancestry and beauty, until the attendant had to march
her off.
One of the inmates I met the next morning criticized
my readings well, and then proceeded to recite Othello's
apology. He was evidently well up in Shakespeare, and
quoted from several of the earlier poets, until speaking of
a Queen it set him off, and he proceeded to tell me he
was the rightful heir to the throne of England; he was a
Plantagenet—the Queen was an impostor. I promised to
see that she abdicated, and I would help him at his
coronation, at which he was greatly pleased. m
Another man told me of his life, how he had worked
and kept a family"; spoke of his poverty and struggles.
The chaplain happened to pass, when he immediately
turned to me, and in the most contemptuous manner
pointed to the chaplain and said he was an impostor, and
preached a false religion, for he himself was Jesus Christ,
and it was only ignorance that kept him there from the
side of the Almighty.
It was a wonderful sight to wander over this large
establishment, with its long, bright corridors, decorated
with pictures and cages of singing birds, with pots of
flowers prettily arranged to attract the eye; to look into
the clean little sleeping-rooms or larger dormitories; to
glance in at the kitchen with its huge cooking arrangements, exquisitely clean; the wash-houses, the workshops
—cooks, mechanics, washerwomen all mad. Stonemasons,
carpenters, pointers, bricklayers—clearly all the work done
by patients—and some of the overseers mad as well.
I was told of only two instances occurring to men who
had almost full liberty, in which it had been found a

MADNESS,

179

mistake. One of a melancholy, suicidal patient, who had
secreted a razor, and cut his throat when haymaking; and
of another who was working in the fields with a pickaxe
and spade, when a friend of the doctor's happened to pass.
" Fine morning, sir," said the man.
" Very," the gentleman replied, not thinking the fellow
was mad.
"Excuse me, sir," continued the lunatic, stopping him
and offering it, " would you take a pipe of tobacco ?"
" No, thank you," he replied.
"You had better," said the madman.
The doctor's friend now suspecting the fellow from the
peculiar look in his eyes, replied—
. - " All right, friend, I will," and he helped himself.
" That's better; you've saved me a deal o' trouble," said
the madman—" for if you hadn't, I'd have broken your
blasted skull in with this axe."
The doctor's friend congratulated himself, gave a sickly
smile, and as may be imagined, hurried on as soon as he
could.
To leave this kind of madness and write of a form of
brain decay arising from old age. Two old gentlemen
connected with my family, both over eighty, and brothers,
were pathetic pictures of this. They had the most courteous
and quiet manners, shrinking from giving the smallest
trouble even when bedridden. For several years before
they died, on going to bed they declined to say "goodnight," always " good-bye," and when in bed they composed
themselves for death instead of sleep. Although living in
the houses they had inhabited for many years, they had a
notion the dining-room in the house was a hotel, and
instead of going to their rooms, each old gentleman would
rise, and politely intimate, "Ladies, it is time I go home."
A daughter would then go out into the hall with him,

180

FKOM LIFE.

give him his hat, and walk with him to his bedroom. He
would then lift his hat and say " good-bye/' perfectly satisfied that he had left the hotel and walked home. They
both died in the same way, calmly and quietly slept from
life to death.
There was another near member of my family, a distinguished officer of the Indian navy, who met with serious
injury in the Arabian Desert. After fourteen years' of
travel in Arabia he returned to England to be fSted and
made much of. He had a short and brilliant career there,
but gradually his brain succumbed. He did strange things;
wrote to the Duke of Wellington, told him he was totally
unable and unfit to hold an important command, and asked
the Duke to call upon him for advice. He drove to St.
James's Palace, to dinner with the Duke of Sussex, in the
dirtiest cab he could pick up in Oxford Street; insulted
Sir John Cam Hobhouse and Joseph Hume; but they all
:knew and regretted the cause. The Duke only wrote him
• a kind letter in reply. He was not mad enough to be put
:
in an asylum, but a house was taken at Ghertsey, near
Virginia Water, to get him away from the excitement of
lLondon, and I was kept from school and sent with him,
where his madness, which only came on occasionally, took
the oddest freaks. At one time he sent the groom with
me to Virginia Water to see a gipsy encampment. The
cook and housemaid he also started off to Chertsey, and
having slyly got two pails of whitewash, he set to work.
When I returned I found him standing on the drawingroom table whitewashing the ceiling—furniture, carpet,
everything soaking—and his tall figure in a silk dressinggown, with his face and gold spectacles all dabbed with
the same. He had unfortunately done the dining-room,
and the satisfaction with which he regarded his work of
-destruction was laughable. On another occasion we were

MADNESS.

xx
a

all sent out, as the cook had failed to make a Yorkshire
pudding to his liking. As soon as he got the house to
himself, he got all the flour, butter, eggs, and things he.
could lay his hands on, and mixed them in a pail. He had
decided to make a pudding for himself, but he was beaten,
for when I returned I found him dressed in evening dress,,
sitting in the kitchen smoking a cigar, and contemplating
with the most comical expression of imbecility, the mess;
he had got together in the pail on the floor. He was surrounded by broken egg-shells and flour. It was not a
happy time for a boy of ten years of age, but he was very
fond of me, and when sane a delightful companion, even
to so young a boy.
There is another form of madness—avarice. I remember
hearing my grandfather tell of an enormously rich merchant
of the city of London, who from the love of accumulating
grew insane, and his sons took possession of his business
and property. The mania of the old man was, that he
should have to go to the workhouse, and the only pleasure
he had was in thinking he stole the silver they left about
for the purpose. He would get up in the night to search,
and when he found, seize upon the sovereigns or shillings
and add them to the store he had secreted in an old
cabinet. It was a horrible form of madness, and should
have taught the sons a lesson, but it did not; they were
as mean, grasping, and selfish as the father; whether they
had the same end I do not know.
Avarice is a common madness, but there are other
phases—gambling, religion, passion, drink, and in Australia
mining speculation. Indeed, as old Jack FalstafF says—
" It's a mad world," and many of us may thank God wo
are not mad enough to be locked up with other lunatics.

OLD I N N S OF ENGLAND.
I N this go-ahead, matter-of-fact age, when the romance
of life and respect for the antique, whether human or
stone, seems to be in a fair way of dying out, few people
trouble themselves to think over the part, in the life
and history of the land, some of the grand old inns of
England have played. They are to be found in the cities,
and scattered along the great highways over which our
forefathers travelled from London to York, Bath, Exeter,
Holyhead, Brighton, Portsmouth, and a hundred other
places. Kings, queens, statesmen, warriors, poets, and the
great men for generations, have entered the doors, to
say nothing of the thousands of ordinary human beings
with vital interests of their own, in whose life these inns
have played a part. Life, death, marriage, happiness,
misery, hopes, and fears, uninteresting to the world at
large, but all the world to the individuals interested.
A few generations ago your Dick Turpins and Jerry Abershaws made coaching a very serious matter, not to speak
of the terrible winter snowdrifts which sometimes obstructed the way. But all episodes of the road were
forgotten, or laughed over—even the dreadful-looking
gibbet, and its ghastly burden in chains, that stood out
a terrible object in the gloaming, and so frightened the

OLD INNS OF ENGLAND.

183

lady passengers—when the jolly-faced landlord meets the
eoach, and welcomes into the inn parlour, with its blazing
fire and smoking hot viands, the half-frozen travellers.
They had no puny kickshaws in those days, the manufacture of which just tickled the appetites, and puzzled
the eaters to discover what they were masticating. Men
and women then liked good honest joints that there was
no mistake about. Here is a bill of fare which I copy
from one made out sixty years ago at the Sugarloaf Inn,
Dunstable ;—" A boiled round of beef, a roast loin of pork,
a roast aitchbone of beef, and a boiled hand of pork, with
peas pudding and parsnips, a roast goose, and a boiled leg
of mutton." A pretty fair choice for a traveller, perhaps
only allowed twenty minutes to eat his meal in.
The Earl of Beaconsfield gives his experiences in
Tancred:—"'The coach stops here half an hour, gentlemen; dinner quite ready/ 'Tis a delightful sound, and
what a dinner! What a profusion of substantial delicacies!
What mighty and irresistible rounds of beef! What vast
and marble-veined ribs ! What gelatinous veal pie ! What
colossal hams! Then the bustle emulating the plenty;
the ringing of bells, the clash of knives and forks, the
summoning of ubiquitous waiters, and the all-pervading
feeling of importance from the guests, who order what
they please of the landlord, who can produce and execute
everything they can desire. 'Tis a wondrous sight."
The author of Tancred is only speaking of the King's
Head, at Thatcham, on the Bath road. Fancy a landlord
producing everything you can desire. Compare the idea
with some of our own experiences at modern palace hotels,
where we may desire a great deal we do not get.
How Dickens loved old inns! He describes the Bui}
and Victoria at Rochester, and the landlord, up to a few
years ago, was delighted to show you tjie fidelity pf the

184

FROM LIFE.

description. " A famous inn! the hall a very grove of
dead game, and fine dangling joints of mutton, and in one
corner an illustrious larder, with glass doors developing
cold fowls, and noble joints, and tarts wherein the raspberry
jam coyly withdrew itself, as such a precious creature
should, behind a latticework of pastry." I think the idea
of the jam and the latticework delightful.
There is another charming writer who appreciates an
inn, Washington Irving. He says in his Sketch Book:—
" W e drove into the great gateway of the inn. I saw
on one side the light of a rousing kitchen fire beaming
through a window. I entered, and admired for the
hundredth time that picture of convenience, neatness, and
broad honest enjoyment, the kitchen of an English inn.
It was of spacious dimensions, hung round with cdpper
and tin vessels highly polished, and decorated here and
there with Christmas green. Hams, tongues, and flitches
of bacon were suspended from the ceiling. A well-scoured
deal table extended along one side of the kitchen, with a
cold round of beef, and other hearty viands upon it—over
which two foaming tankards of ale seemed mounting guard."
He explains this was intended for inferior travellers.
Do not these descriptions rouse the interest of the
reader in old inns ? Certainly he or she may say, but it
is "all animal eating and drinking—nothing but food."
Well, what would come nearer and dearer to a traveller's
heart, after a long coach journey ? You feel the same
sort of thing even in a railway-train, and when you
arrive at the station for refreshment, get hot flavoured
water for soup, beef that has done duty before and is
warmed u p ; and stale bilious pastry—what do you say
then ? Or When arriving at the end of your journey, you
drive to the grand hotel, and find a huge, handsomelydecorated exterior, most elaborate interior, a large refresh-

OLD INNS OF ENGLAND.

185

ment-room with a fire-place, and half a dozen sickly
smouldering coals which they call a fire, waiters half
asleep, and nothing served between meal hours except
a stale chop, or tough steak, or perhaps, if you are fortunate, you are allowed a cold cut off a half-raw joint. What
would you say to the menu of "the Sugar Loaf at Dunstable " then ?
I am bound to think there was much more companionship, life, jollity in the days when the Flying Machines,
the Eegents, the Eockets, the Heroes, Telegraphs, Wonders,
Tallyhos, and a hundred other coaches, were driven by
such whips as John Scott, Tom Hennessy, Sam Haywards,
and Dick Vickers, men who could tool spanking teams of
thoroughbreds ten miles an hour for years without a fault
or accident. Considering the roads they drove over, there
are not many living who could do the same nowadays.
In speaking of inns and hotels, it should be remembered
that the word " i n n " was, away back in the centuries,
meant to designate a great nobleman's mansion, as Lincoln's Inn—precisely in the same way as " hotel" is now
used in France—but in this more refined age inn became
too common a term, and inns are now hotels. If only
a roadside public-house with half a dozen beds to let, it's
a hotel.
Some of these old inns have greatly changed. The
Castle Inn, Marlborough, was once in the Tudor period
one of the few houses established in the country for
travelling royalty to stop at. It was then a nobleman's
palace, and here lived the Duchess of Somerset; afterwards
it had the reputation of being the best inn in all England.
I t was on the road to Bath, and here might be seen the
great Minister Walpole, Chesterfield, Lady Mary Montagu,
Garrick, Sheridan. It was here Lord Chatham, when laid
up with the gout, insisted on every servant in the house

186

FROM LIFE.

down to the stable-boy, wearing his livery. There is
hardly a name, from royalty downwards, of the fashionable
world of England on their way to Bath that the Castle
Inn had not been made familiar with. Gentleman Jackson the prize-fighter, and Lord Byron later on stayed
there. Now this same inn is part of the college; it
was turned into a school in 1843.
The Old Tabard, Southwark, Chaucer's Old Tabard,
Shakespeare's Boar's Head, Eastcheap, and the Mermaid^
are now names to be remembered only; and so it is, or
will be, with such celebrated London inns from whence
the coaches started, as the Bell and Crown, the Golden
Cross, White Horse Cellar, Gloucester Coffee-house, and
others. I don't know how many are at present absorbed
in London improvements—nearly all, I suppose. At any
rate, at the doors no longer lounge the dandies of George
IV.'s time, with cravats half a yard high, long hair, curled
hats; their chief talk was the last new scandal of high
life, the half a dozen bottles drank over-night, and the
last prize fight.
I spoke of kings and queens stopping at inns on the
highways and towns of England. So they did. Richard
I I I . was staying at an inn when he signed Buckingham's
death-warrant, and it was in the courtyard of the Blue
Boar (now the Saracen's Head), at Salisbury, Buckingham's
head was cut off.
At the Crown Inn, Rochester, the much married Henry
V I I I , privately and unknown inspected his wife, Anne
of Cleves, before publicly receiving her, and gave his
opinion of her to his friends in strong language, of
which " a Flanders mare" gives only a mild notion, and
for the choice of the lady, Henry was not long in avenging
himself on Cromwell by taking the first opportunity of
cutting off his head on Tower-hill,

OLD INNS OF ENGLAND.

187

The Bell, at Stilton, in 1536, stood as it does now, or
as it did when I last saw it. Here Queen Elizabeth
stopped on her way. What splendid cavalcades of her time
refreshed here too ! To this house in a later day came the
Ironsides of Cromwell; people flying from the plague
in London; king's messengers from the war, and the
battle of Culloden; then followed the Jacobite prisoners.
It was a fine old inn, and a celebrated halting-place on the
Great North Road. There it stands, the ghost of its
former self; time worn, neglected, and deserted-looking.
I stood and looked up at the windows in passing it on
a walking tour from Cambridge, and wondered if I was
sleeping in one of the old bedrooms, if the shadows of any
or all the generations of sleepers who had been there
before me would visit once more "the glimpses of the
moon/' and pass in review. What a motley host, what
a wonderful variety of human greatness, human pride,
human folly ! On entering I could not venture to ask for
a bed, the place looked so dirty, decayed, and uninviting.
I asked for refreshment instead. Shade of the past, where
be your noble joints now ? Bread and cheese, nothing
else; it was the best they had, and bad was the
best; a slatternly, untidy country wench dabbed it upon
the table without a cloth. I could only make the best
of it, and shut my eyes in the great, cold, cheerless room,
and people it in imagination with some of the phantoms
of its past glory.
It was at the Anchor at Liphook, on the Portsmouth
road, where George the Third and Queen Charlotte took
up their quarters; and there too stopped the Duke
of Clarence, the Allied Sovereigns who came to England
with Blucher and other great people of 1815 and 1816.
There also stayed the Duchess of Oldenburg, the Queen

188

FKOM LIFE.

of Spain, and the Queen of Portugal, the Duchess of Kent,
and our Queen Victoria when a girl. If ever an inn
deserved the name of Royal, the Anchor at Liphook did.
But to drop royalty and come down to my humble self.
My profession took me to Bury St. Edmunds, and I drove
to what I had heard was the most comfortable hotel
in the town. My wife was with me. We were received
by the landlady, an imposing lady in black silk, and were
shown up-stairs to a comfortable old-fashioned sitting-room
and bedroom. At dinner the landlord, who looked like
a highly respectable butler in a nobleman's family, which
very likely he had been, brought in the soup, followed
by an elderly bald-headed waiter with the plates—the
latter dressed to perfection, if somewhat antiquated, in
black dress coat and trousers, canary-coloured vest, and
high white neck-cloth. Everything served was of the best,
—it was winter—and each day a splendid fire blazed
on the hearth. When we left, highly pleased, the landlady, in her black silk, stood at the bottom of the stairs to
wish us " good-bye/' the landlord at the door, the yellowvested waiter at the cab (it ought to have been a carriage
with postboys to fill the picture). As we drove away I
felt certain that somewhere, or somehow, I had seen that
inn before, and its surroundings. " Where and when ? "
was the question. All at once it dawned upon me I
had seen it in the Pickwick Papers. It was the very inn.
"The coach rattled through the well-paved streets of
a handsome little town of thriving and cleanly appearance*
and stopped before a large inn situated in a wide open
street, nearly facing the old abbey. ' And this/ said Mr.
Pickwick, ' is the Angel!' "
Why it was only round the corner where Miss Tompkins
kept school, and Mr. Pickwick, in his zeal to prevent

OLD INNS OF ENGLAND.

189

a scandal, had a leg over the wall, and landed in the
gooseberry bushes.
I t was at the door of this same Angel Mr. Weller stood
to receive Mr. Winkle, Mr. Snodgrass, Mr. Wardle, and
Mr. Trundle. It was in the very sitting-room we had
been using Mr. Pickwick received the fatal letter which
told him of the coming lawsuit, Bardell against Pickwick—
" SIR,
"Having been instructed by Mrs. Martha Bardell to
commence an action against you for a breach of promise of marriage,
for which the plaintiff lays her damages at fifteen hundred pounds,
we beg to inform you that a writ has been issued against you in this
suit in the Court of Common Pleas, and request to know by return
of post the name of your attorney in London who will accept service
thereof.
" We are, sir, your obedient servants,
'

" DODSON AND FOGG."

I t was from thence they started on that celebrated
shooting excursion, with Mr. Pickwick in a wheelbarrow,
through an attack of rheumatism, caught that evening
of the descent into the gooseberry-bushes. There, too,
he got hilarious, and was run into the pound by Captain
Boldwig—barrow and all.
Here they were—and I had lived three days in the
house and only thought of them as I drove to the station.
If I had only remembered such old friends before, what
joyous companions we should have had in the old inn!
" What nonsense !" says the matter-of-fact reader; " it is
all visionary—such men never lived*" Yes, unimaginative
reader; they lived for me, and will live for centuries in
the minds of thousands, for the hand of genius has made
them immortal.

SPORT I N DAYS OF YORE.
SPORT has always been a strong characteristic of the
English race, inherited, I should think, rather from our
Norman than Saxon forefathers; it seems the natural outcome of a brave, strong, hardy race, not given to any very
compassionate or merciful feelings. It is not my intention
to moralize, however, but to take a glimpse at sport some
seventy, eighty, or ninety years ago, by which it will be
seen our predecessors about the commencement of the
century were certainly coarser and more brutal in their
amusements than we are in the present day. It was the
the golden age of the prize-ring. At the Clayton Arms,
Godstow (an inn, by-the-way, when Richard the Second
was king), are assembled the Regent of England, afterwards George the Fourth, the Emperor of Russia, and
other noble followers in the train of the Allied Sovereigns
and Princes who came to England after the fall of Napoleon. They have taken up their quarters for the night
with such accommodation as the inn could afford, to
proceed in the morning to Blindley Heath to see a prizefight for the championship of England. Blindley Heath
was one of the great battle-grounds of Corinthians—and a
little further on is Copshat Common, a still more favoured

SPORT IN DAYS OF YORE.

191

resort of the fancy, where, in 1810, Cribb fought the
famous battle with Molineaux, the black. Another celebrated spot was Crawley Down. A classic authority on
such matters—Boxiana—gives an account of the fight
there between two famous men, Randal and Martin, in
May 1819. We may pass over the account of the fight,
as being more or less brutal, but we may turn with interest
to the description of the road and scene at the ring—it
reads like the excitement of a modern Derby day. It
is a picture of the time, full of the slang of the ring :—
" The fancy was all upon the alert soon after breakfast on
the Monday to ascertain the scene of action, and as soon
as the important whisper had gone forth that Crawley
Down was likely to be the place, the toddlers were off in a
twinkling. The gigs were soon brushed up, prads harnessed, and the boys who intended to enjoy themselves on
the road were in motion. Between the hours of two and
three o'clock in the afternoon upwards of a hundred gigs
were counted passing through Croydon. The ^bonifaces
chuckled with delight, and screwing was the order of the
day. Long before eight o'clock in the evening every bed
belonging to the inns and public-houses in Godstone,
Reigate, and Bletchingly were doubly, some trebly, occupied. Five and seven shillings were charged for a wretched
stand for a horse, or a bed in any miserable hut. But those
customers who were fly to all the tricks and fancies of life,
and who would not be nailed at any price, preferred going
to roost in a barn, whilst others, possessing rather more
gaiety, and who set sleep at defiance, blowed a cloud
over some heavy wet—devouring the rich points of a flash
chaunt, and thought no more of time hanging heavily than
they did of the classics;—chaunting and swiping till many
of the young sprigs dropped off their perches, while the old

192

FROM LIFE.

ones felt the influence of the dustman, and were glad to
drop their nobs to obtain forty winks. Those persons
whose blunt enabled them to procure beds could not obtain
any sleep, for carriages of every description were passing
through the above towns all the night. Things passed on
in this manner till daylight began to peep. Then the
swells in their barouches all hurried from the metropolis,
and the road exhibited the bustle of the primest day of
Epsom races. The Brilliant also left Brighton and Worthing at about the same^ period, and thus were the roads
thronged in every direction. The weather cleared up by
twelve o'clock. The amphitheatre on Crawley Down had
a noble effect, and thousands and thousands of persons were
assembled/'
It was calculated on this occasion that if all the carriages
had been placed in a line they would have reached from
Crawley to London—some thirty miles.
Imagine a picture like this and the occasion—two men
hammering away at each other in a twenty-four foot ring.
I have a Bell's Life in London before me of Sunday,
May 13, 1825. There is a characteristic description in it
of a great event, when Billy the Great and the Kentish
bitch, two rat-killing dogs, formed the chief feature of the
evening's entertainment. It took place at Charley's Crib,
situated in the charming locality of Duck-lane, Westminster. We may leave the approach to this abode to the
imagination, but the " crib " may be thus described:—A
goodly-sized, barn-looking building attached to a low
public-house built of wood and shingle; no attempt at
decoration except a few daubs here and there; rough
wooden planks for seats, and a few divisions, so-called
boxes, with ragged, dirty coverings. The whole place lit
with flaring lamps of fat, such as we may see to this day

SPOKT IN DAYS OF YORE.

193

attached to costermongers' stalls round about Whitechapel. Here are assembled noblemen and gentlemen,
fresh from dinner, from the clubs and mansions in fashionable quarters, shoulder to shoulder with knaves and
thieves, the very scum of Westminster. The report says
the interest in the affair was intense, and the doors were
rushed for admission. To use the words of BeWs Life:—
"The boxes were graced by about fifty pairs of as handsome mustachios on the biggest swells to be found on the
parade of fashion in Hyde-park." In a short time the
heat appears to have become intense; windows and doors
are opened, and, that not being sufficient, a part of the
roof is taken off. A row ensues, which is only quelled by
Charley addressing the audience, and (again to quote the
report) " His Grace the King's ratcatcher entered the arena
with a large cage of rats of all ages and sizes." Then for
the entertainment. The Kentish bitch and Billy are
brought in. The bitch sets to work, has her mouth
sponged twice, and kills all the rats—time, 8 min. 45 sec.
The rats are counted; there are only sixty-five instead of
a hundred—an attempt at a swindle on the part of " His
Grace." Another row ensues. It is quieted at last by
" H i s Grace" declaring he had brought over 200 rats the
night before, and the rats had quarrelled and killed each
other. It was at last decided Billy should have the same
number. So the rats are put in, and he sets to work and
finishes in 7 min. and 30 sec. The rats are counted, and
it is found there are ninety—another little attempt on the
part of His Grace, I suppose, to favour the bitch. However, Billy is the victor, and is applauded to the echo.
Then follows a dog-fight between a black and a brown
animal, each 36 lbs. weight. Blackey shows undoubted
pluck, hangs on like grim death, and Browney, at last,
o

194

FROM LIFE.

after six rounds, very much punished, turns tail and cries
enough.
A badger is then turned loose, and is fastened by a
string round his tail to a ring in the floor. Charley
announces a gentleman present has a dog he is anxious
should make his ddlut. The gentleman brings in a fine
dog weighing 40 lbs., which he said he was willing to back
against the badger, or any dog his weight, for he came of
a good stock—both his sire and grandsire were never
known to give in, but died fighting. The dog is matched
against the badger, and the fight commences. The sporting scribe goes into ecstasies over the manner the badger
uses, as he calls them, " his sharp masticators," but we are
glad to find the dog " vindicates the honour of his county,
Staffordshire." Both are considerably the worse for the
encounter, but the dog wins, the gentleman owner is
triumphant, and is induced to sell his dog for £3.
Another badger and dog are set to work, but the dog is
more cautious than valorous this time. The badger gets his
teeth into him, and when' able to free himself the dog declines any further acquaintance, much to the disgust of the
sporting fraternity,' who hiss him accordingly. He does
not feel the disgrace, as he wags his tail at his escape and
departs. Another dog-fight then takes place between two
powerful bulldogs; both are equally strong and ferocious;
they tear each "other pretty well to pieces, and it is considered a drawn fight.
Now came the other great event of the evening, for the
bear is to be brought in. His proximity has been announced during the evening by sundry angry groans. The
door of his den is thrown open, he is disinclined to enter
the ring, so he is prodded, and half choked in dragging Bim
forth. The " Canine Student" is then introduced to him,

SPORT IN DAYS OF YORE.

195

and, to turn again to the account, " the instant he was
placed in front of the representative of all the Russias, he
darted at him with John Bull courage, but Bruin instantly
rumped him to save his snout, and, with all the coyness of
a maiden resisting an effort for a hiss, he kept turning his
nozzle from right to left against the wall, thus for a time
avoiding the intended salute." I think this is a delicious
idea, and I have no doubt the sportive scribe felt proud of
it—the coy niaiden resisting a kiss being likened to a bear
turning his rump to a dog, and so endeavouring to save his
snout. The dog succeeds at last, hangs on to the unfortunate bear's snout, until the bear cries peccavi, and the
audience shout applause. This dog is taken away, and
another is set on, who is successful on the bear's snout,
only after being considerably mauled. When they are
both sufficiently tortured, the dog, limping and bleeding, is
taken away, and the bear, with his snout torn to pieces, is
dragged out of the ring, and the u fun " is over. Charley
is complimented on the sport he has given his supporters,
and he announces, amidst great applause, he has purchased
a bull for the amusement of the higher order of his
patrons, which will soon have the honour of taking the
field against some dogs of his special choosing, and he has
no doubt he will be able to afford his patrons splendid
sport. The audience, highly delighted, then depart from
"Charley's Crib."
In the same paper it is announced that arrangements
are nearly complete for Nero the Lion to fight the dogs.
It is expected to be a grand combat, to take place in a
den 10 ft. high and 57 ft. in circumference, round which
a substantial amphitheatre is to be erected, the prices of
admission—boxes three guineas, pit two guineas, and the
gallery one guinea. Pretty stiff prices, more particularly

196

FROM LIFE.

in those days, and the crowd expected is so great persons
are requested to send their names to the office of Bell's
Life or JZgan's Life in London. There are announcements
also of fights to come off between Jones the Sailor Boy
and Godwin the Chelsea Such, Jem Ward and Jem Burn,
Young Dutch Sam and Stockman, Sampson and Jem
Burns, and others.
Lord Sefton is announced to have made a bet of 1000
guineas with Lord Kensington that the latter will not
ride from London to Oxford, on the same horse, between
sunrise and sunset. Twelve to eight are the odds against
his doing it. Alas ! for the poor horse !
A gentleman living in Southampton undertakes to
run from Winchester to Southampton (twelve miles over
a hilly road) in one hour and a half. The bet is taken
up. I wonder if he did it? It was a difficult task to
accomplish.
In writing of these days I cannot pass over a curious
dialogue I find in this paper, which might be applied to
some of our young sprigs of fashion of the present day; it
is headed—
"EXAMINATION OF A PRETENDER TO FASHION.
BY THE MODERN DILLWORTH.

" Q.—Are you a gentleman ?
" A,—I am.
" Q.—By what signs do you know that you are a
gentleman ?
" A.—Because I do nothing, live well, go to Almack's,
and eat olives after dinner.
" Q.—What is your fortune ?
"A.—A younger brother's allowance of six hundred a
year.

SPORT IN DAYS OF YORE.

197

" Q.—What is your income, then ?
" A.—About five thousand a year.
" Q.—There is a distinction, then, between fortune and
income ?
" A.—Very great, with every man of fashion.
" Q.—Explain the distinction ?
"A.—By fortune I mean what may be called a man's
own money; by income, the money of other people—it
may be made up of various articles and goods we get
possession of by virtue of credit or otherwise.
" Q.—But how do you arrive at your yearly income ?
(<
A.—By simply ordering my servant to cast up the
year's bills ?
" Q.—Suppose you procure cash for an accommodation
bill, how do you consider that ?
"A.—As an accession to my income, of course. Not
intending to pay it back, I account myself so much the
richer.
" Q.—How old are you ?
" ^.—Twenty.
" Q.—How long have you been on the town ?
" A,—Three years.
" Q.—What is the ordinary period of a man of fashion^
life ?
" A.—A man of extreme fashion is counted old at oneand-twenty, and if he has lived all his life, he commonly
dies of extreme old age and infirmity at six-and-twenty or
thereabouts."
The dialogue then passed to other subjects. The man
of fashion is asked—
"What is the most wonderful invention of modern
times ?
" A.—The starched neckcloth.

198

FROM LIFE.

" Q.—Who invented the starched neckcloth ?
" A.—Brummell.
" Q.—Give particulars of the invention.
" A.—When Brummell fell into disgrace, he devised
the starched neckcloth, with the design of putting the
Prince of Wales's neck out of fashion, and of bringing His
Royal Highness's muslin, his bow and wadding, into
contempt. When Brummell first appeared in this stiffened
cravat, tradition says that the sensation in St. James'sstreet was prodigious; dandies were struck dumb with
envy, and washerwomen miscarried. No one could conceive how the effect was produced. Tin, card, a thousand
contrivances were attempted, and innumerable men cut
their throats in vain experiments. Lord D
died raving
mad; his mother, his sister, and all his relatives waited on
Brummell, and on their knees implored him to save the
young man's life ; but the Beau was obdurate, and D
miserably perished. When Brummell fled from England
he left his secret a legacy to his country. He wrote on a
sheet of paper, which he left on his dressing-table, the
emphatic word ' Starch.' "
The writer of this dialogue did not know half the truth
and force of the satire he was writing, not only on the
fashion of his age, but of the ages of swelldom to follow in
the future.

SKETCHES FROM TRAVEL.
A GLANCE AT GALATZ AND THE BOSPHORUS.
EVERY one knows Punch's advice to people about to
marry—" don't." To any one thinking of visiting Galatz
I should say "don't." My going there came about rather
strangely. I was spending the evening with a friend, a
large shipowner and merchant, and his wife, at South
Shields, near Newcastle-on-Tyne.
" I am obliged to go to Galatz on the Danube," he said;
" my wife is going with me, and you must come too."
Before going to the house I had not dreamt of such a
thing. We talked the matter over, and I agreed to be
ready to start within a few days.
"You know a great deal more of the Continent than
we do," continued my friend; " here's a map; now mark
out a good round journey of six or eight weeks."
I did so as follows:—Newcastle to Antwerp, Brussels,
Cologne, the Rhine, Wiesbaden, Frankfort; a look at
Homburg, through Bavaria to Vienna, from Austria to
Pesth in Hungary; there take the Danube to Galatz; from
Galatz out into the Black Sea, round to Varna, up the
Bosphorus to Constantinople, out by way of the Sea of

200

SKETCHES FROM TRAVEL.

Marmora; through the iEgean Archipelago, calling at the
Islands of Lemnos and Scios to the Mediterranean; up the
Adriatic; a peep at the Ionian Islands, calling at Corfu;
then to Trieste, across to Venice; Milan; from thence by
way of the largest of the Italian lakes, Lago Maggiore,
over the St. Gothard Pass—there was no railway under at
that time—to Switzerland, and through France home. I
thought this a very fair tour for the time allowed. I
made it a sine qua non that my friend and his wife should
have only one fair-sized portmanteau between them—the
lady of course having the better half; and I would be
content with a good-sized handbag. No one can imagine
the comfort and convenience of an arrangement of this
kind for such a journey; and I would impress upon lady
readers the fact, that Mrs. W
never expressed a want of
more luggage. She managed admirably, always looking
the pink of neatness. It only shows what a lady can do,
in this respect, if she makes up her mind to it.
We took the precise journey I had marked out so far as
Pesth, saw nearly all that was to be seen on the route,
and for information I refer the reader to the Guide-book.
After Pesth, a little description may be interesting. The
river Danube from about Ullo, past Duna Foldvar, almost
to Vukovar, was transformed into one vast fresh-water sea.
The whole country was under water: windmills, of which
there seemed to be plenty on the first part of the journey,
just showing a little of their topsails, houses their
chimneys, and trees their tops, above the flood; wretched
horses and cattle, driven from place to place by the rising
flood, huddled together on some little piece of dry land,
the water creeping surely up to them. It was a vast scene
of cruel desolation.
The river is very tortuous, and as I looked at the water

A GLANCE AT GALATZ AND THE BOSPHORUR 201
I could not see the flowing of the stream, or anything to
denote its course. We anchored of course at night; but
I have always thought the steering of the steamer through
that flood, without a single mishap, a masterpiece of
navigation.
During this monotonous journey it is as well to take a
look at our travelling-companions. We had two Servians;
two Turks, bilious and taciturn; an Albanian in a velvet
and gold jacket, full trousers, and a belt with sword and
pistols in it, like a first stage robber, who spoke to no one;
two Greeks, always ready for a game of cards, or dice, and
strange to say always winning; a rich and foolish young
Englishman, who was distinguished for always losing;
several sharp-eyed and long-nosed German or Kussian
Jews, on the look-out for a bargain of any sort; two
Austrian officers on their way to some of the small and
wretchedly lonely frontier forts; a lady of doubtful
character from Bohemia, young and pretty, going to seek
her fortune in Galatz; two other nondescript females,
and a middle-aged lady, wife of a banker at Bukharest,
who joined us in the smoking-room every night, and blew
a cloud from her cigarette out of her mouth and nostrils.
We used to watch and see it occasionally come out of her
ears. I never saw such a tobacco-chimney as that
banker's wife. Her face was like that of a smoked codfish;
her flesh nothing more than smoke-dried, freckled, yellow
parchment stretched over her bones. She reminded me of
two dried up human beings with the flesh intact I saw
in the vaults of an old church in Dublin, which they said
were over two hundred years old. You can imagine the
husband of such a woman—a weak-kneed, yellow-faced,
meek little man who smoked; of course he could not do
otherwise with such a volcano of a wife. He might rule a

202

SKETCHES FROM TRAVEL.

bank, but she evidently ruled him. Besides these there
was a talkative, assertive Englishman, who knew everybody and everything you could mention. I put him down
as a newspaper correspondent, and found I was right.
One thing we thanked him for; he travelled with his own
tea, and gave us a good cup in place of the wretched
concoction of hot water and dust we had served out. The
entire food on board this boat might be termed greasy;
grease was in or on everything. When I saw the volcano
and others tackle the caviare, I could believe the old story
of the Eussians belonging to a war-ship off Portsmouth,
when the streets were lit with oil-lamps, stealing and
drinking the oil out of them. It was vile stuff; the
coarsest oil would have been just as palatable to a novice;
it looked like coarse jam. Mrs. W
asked me what it
was they all seemed to partake of. I told her black-currant
jam, and it was the custom in that part of the world to eat
a little always at meals. She tried it, and did not trust me
again. I never saw such grimaces as she made in her
endeavour to swallow it. It was too bad, but the temptation was very great. It will be understood there was no
attraction in our companions or the table, and we were
very glad when Belgrade was reached. The grand portion
of the Danube, on the way to and past the Irongates, there
is no question, is much finer than the Rhine. The same
class of river scenery, but bolder, more majestic, wilder; it
looked a fitting place for the large eagles that soared
above us, then floated away on the air to their eyrie in the
mountains. Revelling in the scenery, the discomfort of
the steamer and our uncongenial fellow-travellers were all
forgotten; we had eyes and tongues only to call each
other's attention to beauty succeeding beauty. At length
we are through them, and are recalled to our surroundings;

A GLANCE AT GALATZ AND THE BOSPHOKUS. 203
and the few dirty, miserable villages we pass or call at on
the Servian and Wallachian banks.
After days and nights on the river, for it is about eight
hundred miles, we see steamers, tug-boats, shipping, and a
larger town on the Moldavian side. We are at Galatz,
the chief port of Roumania. The steamer was hauled up
to the side of a very poor wooden jetty, and some dirtylooking soldiers in patched overcoats came on board to
demand our passports ; this little ceremony over, we were
free to ^land. The houses and streets about the wharf
reminded me of Wapping, celebrated in the song as
" Wapping Old Stairs," after a flood, with two-thirds of the
inhabitants clestroyed. On further search there were a
few decent commercial buildings, owned by Greek and
English merchants. The agent of my friend met us, a
conveyance was called into which we got, and the driver
was ordered to take us to the chief hotel, where rooms
had been secured. The tumble-down, rickety Victoria
was drawn by two miserable-looking, small horses. Their
coats I should think had never known the luxury of
cleaning; the dirt was caked into it here and there,
relieved by blood-streaks where the whip had been used.
All the horses seemed the same. On looking at the ragged
lining of the conveyance, I felt convinced we had many
travelling-companions, and I was quite right. The chief
hotel—I think it was called The London—was not at all
inviting in its internal arrangements. The rooms were
barely furnished; it smelt strongly, the dining-room particularly ; so much so, that I thought a shed in the yard
would be more comfortable to have our dinner under. It
was served here, and I am sorry to say poor Mrs. W,
who was very susceptible to such things, her fair skin having
a special charm for the insects, had to leave the table

204

SKETCHES FROM TRAVEL.

half a dozen times to rid herself of the attentions of
travelling companions she had unintentionally deprived
the carriage of. Fortunately for me, all such things,
mosquitos included, have a distaste for my blood; it does
not agree with them. We afterwards found that fleas
and, more disgusting still, lice abounded nearly everywhere ; you could not wonder at it walking through the
filthy streets. I always thought before that Cologne
carried the palm for ill odorous smells, but Galatz had it
twenty to one. Nearly all the draught work seems to be
done by bullocks; the drivers are in peasant dresses, coats
and caps of sheepskin, sandals of untanned ox-hide. They
are a poor, serf-like race, heavily taxed, no political rights,
and living outside the town in mud-huts, or more generally
in a semi-subterranean hole, scooped out of the earth,
covered over with branches, and plastered with mud and
cow-dung. Here a man, his wife, family of children, and
animals live together. If the poor wretch cannot pay his
taxes he is occasionally taken out of his hole and thrashed
with a cowhide thong. The English Consul told me,
notwithstanding their ignorance and degraded position,
they were a very simple, honest race; that murder or
larceny amongst them was almost unknown, in comparison
to our large cities of the more civilized world. That seems
to be a score for ignorance. Crimes in Roumania, as in
Turkey, were chiefly instigated or committed by the lowbred Greeks who infest Eastern cities, and demoralize the
people. A number of the lower class of Roumanians are
gipsies, who lead a wandering life, roaming about from
place to place. The language generally used among them
and the peasantry sounded to me very like the Italian.
I was walking along the wharves one morning looking at
the shipping, when I smelt something more than ordinarily

A GLANCE AT GALATZ AND THE BOSPHOKUS. 205

disgusting, and all at once I came upon the dead body of
a woman, fished out of the river, far gone in decomposition.
Candles stuck in bottles had been placed at its head, feet,
and sides, and some half-naked young ragamuffins were
enjoying the fun of leaping to and fro over the corpse.
No notice was taken, life went on just the same; it was
too much trouble to remove the horrible object. One
evening we were advised to visit some gardens, which
appeared to be about the only amusement in the place.
It was about two acres of enclosed dust, with a band
playing; here and there a few sickly shrubs and trees, and
patches of grass. The few people looked as if attending
a funeral; not a sound of jollity amongst them. If they
sat at the tables and drank small beer, or a spirit which
tasted to me like turpentine, they did it in the most
solemn manner. There was no life, no vitality anywhere
in the town or out of it. I suppose the frequent occupation by foreign troops, and the uncertainty of its future
had damped the ardour and the hopes of the people. The
Principality is a bone over which Russia and Turkey
snarl at each other; the former officers its army and gets
its nose in, whenever an opportunity serves; the latter
claims a tribute, and has some authority over the Government. The stranger can have no idea what a country it
is. Nature would be as bountiful as in the best and most
cultivated parts of Australia, if it was well used. Notwithstanding it has a severe winter of three months, every
kind of grain will grow, vegetables, fruit, the vine; there
is an abundance of feed for horses and sheep; plenty of
fish in the rivers and game on the land. There is ample
river accommodation; great mineral wealth in the Carpathian Mountains, including very good coal. In the
valleys near the mountains are petroleum wells; it is

206

SKETCHES FROM TRAVEL.

called liquid gas, and the streets and houses were lit up
with it. Salt is so rich it is a Government monopoly.
Imagine all this, yet from what I could learn nearly every
manufactured article is imported, and maize is the only
export in any quantity. The roads everywhere are vile,
travelling worse than in the Australian bush; railways
much talked of, little done; in fact, I came to the
conclusion Roumania is about the most backward place of
the civilized world.
One evening only during my stay did I congratulate
myself at being there. I was sitting with my friends on
the roof of a cafe (the roofs are mostly flat as in Eastern
cities), and the sun was setting over the lowlands and
marshes, which are here on both sides of the Danube.
The sky above was dark purple and blue, fringed with
gold; towards the horizon round the sun the golden light
extended like a glory. Gradually as the sun sank the
colours dispersed, and the lighter clouds .changed to
crimson. Then as a ball of fire the sun sank beyond the
horizon, leaving the earth and heavens radiant in a
crimson glow that blazed with reflected fire; again it
changed to a golden yellow, then amber, ruby, green, blue,
until the moon and myriads of stars lit up the scene and
studded the heavens. Only once off the Greek island of
Scios have I seen anything so beautiful as the moonlight
that followed upon that sunset on the Danube. All the
time we watched, a band of six Bohemians played near to
us on the roof, some of their weird but strangely fascinating music, now soft as a lullaby, then plaintive as a lovesong ; now swelling to wild and thrilling notes that might
be the prelude to the song of Ossian, or to the Druids'
mystic worship. It was strangely beautiful; always to be
remembered.

A GLANCE AT GALATZ AND THE BOSPHOKUS. 207

We left Galatz to continue our journey with a deck
ftdl of Kussian Jews, Turks, and pilgrims who had been
journeying some thousands of miles to a sacred shrine.
They were continually praying. Some of the Turks, when
we started, and more that came on board at Ismail, had
their wives, from four to eight, and children with them.
I noticed most of them had one black woman. The lower
deck was covered or rather packed with the pilgrims and
others, so a tarpaulin was rigged up on the saloon deck
for these women and children, and here the poor wretches
were packed like sardines. When we got out into the
Black Sea, as usual it was very rough, and as night came
on, feeling I could not go down into the cabin, I remained
on deck, the only saloon passenger there. I suffered for
it, for I shall never forget what followed. The women and
children were frightened and sick—sick over each other,
packed so close together they could hardly move. They
quarrelled, gabbled, cried, and shrieked. The deck at last
was so disgusting I took refuge below and paid the penalty.
Landing at Varna, we walked about that wretched
Eastern city, wondering not that so many of our brave
soldiers died there of cholera at the time of the Crimean
war, but that any escaped. It had all the characteristics
of an Eastern city—the narrow streets, in some cases
almost shutting out the light, the absence of causeways,
the gutter in the middle, the open shops or stalls, and
more than the usual dirt. There was nothing to induce
us to remain, so hurrying on, early on a bright, clear,
lovely morning, we entered the Bosphorus. It was the
entrance to Paradise; I don't know of its character if
there is anything more beautiful on the face of the earth.
Fable and history seem to go hand-in-hand in one's
thoughts, and revive memories of its past, More beautiful

208

SKETCHES FROM TBAVEL.

than the Bay of Naples, the finest parts of the Rhine,
the approach to Venice, far more so than the noblest
portions of the Rhine; shall I say it to Australians, than
Sydney Harbour ? (I suppose I may say it, but they will
not believe me; it is a fact though.) There is an endless
variety of loveliness. The rival castles of Europe and
Asia; the valleys, mountains, rocks, foliage; the villages
here and there with parti-coloured houses intermingled
with trees, and gardens backed by lofty hills; each beautiful curve is lost only to be succeeded by another and
another still more beautiful.
About midway on the
apex of a rock, the fine Greek outline of the Imperial
Kiosque—the Kiosque of the Sun—standing out in
strong relief; country summer mansions extending for
nearly twelve miles on either shore; villas with terraces
formed into parterres, and flower-beds gorgeous in colour;
pretty kiosques high up on some jutting cliffs; rosewreaths and garlands hanging from walls; the rapid caique
darting here and everywhere as we approach the palaces
of Constantinople, and we get a view of the gilded tops
of minarets and mosques that shimmer in the sun against
the clear blue sky, beautiful in the sunshine; still more
beautiful as I looked on it from a height above Pera one
moonlight night.
(l

Oh 1 could I only call to view
Each scene in its own fair hue,
And the same brightness that it wore
Eor me, on Bosphor's lovely shore.
The eye in lingering o'er my line,
Would see the gilded minaret shine,
Trace the stern mountain's lofty peak,
Bound onward with the swift caique,
And count the thousand glories o'er,
Of either palace-girdled shore;

A GLANCE AT GALATZ AND THE BOSPHORUS. 209
Spell-bound by thy bright witcheries,
Fair city of the triple seas."

We anchored in the stream, and were immediately
surrounded by a crowd of boats and boatmen, and
Armenian porters swarmed the deck. We had to fight
for our luggage, which they seized hold of like vultures;
we were hustled into a boat with difficulty, hauled out
of it on to a dirty wharf. Such a row, such a stench!
If the approach to Constantinople was heaven, this
was—well! the other place. The Custom House officers
pounced down on our unfortunate portmanteaux. Backsheesh, bribery could only get them out of their hands,
and an English merchant told me in this " Fair City,'*
or rather dirty city, and throughout the country, nothing
could be done without bribery. It was in the air;
it was the only way the civil servants, highest to the
lowest, were paid, for the Government were always in
debt to them. All at once I looked round, and two
of the confounded Armenian fellows had secured our
portmanteaux, and were hurrying away up to the hotel
at Pera. As fast as our legs could carry us we followed,
for there were no conveyances, and when we got to the
hotel we were thoroughly exhausted. Of course the
porters were not satisfied, although we paid them well.
Armenian porters, like English cabmen, never are.
There may be some curiosity with the reader to know
if we carried out the tour traced on the map. We did
to the letter, and arrived in smoky Newcastle seven weeks
after leaving it.

i*

ON THE ROAD IN TEXAS TO MEMPHIS.
A VERY profitable engagement at Galveston ending, the
manager suggested I should play two nights in Austin,
and two in Houston, and he would send his company
with me. We came to terms; and on a miserably wet
Sunday morning I started on the journey. The train was
late, and waiting at the station, which had very poor
accommodation, I got cold before entering the carriage
crowded with steaming humanity. The carriage was very
dirty, and the line must be a villainously laid one, for
it jolted and swayed until my bones ached and my head
grew dizzy. Outside Galveston the railway crosses over
a wide stretch of swamp; the rails are supported by piles*
and the ground into which the piles are driven forms
anything but a sound foundation.
Looking at the marsh land, and the shallows from the
Gulf of Mexico, which surrounds one side of the city, it
is no wonder that in such a humid, relaxing climate yellow
fever does a good stroke of business every year, the
miserable drainage of the city adding to the danger. We
jolted fifty miles in about four hours, and then there wTas
a cry caused by an unusually severe bump.
"What is the matter?"

ON THE ROAD IN TEXAS TO MEMPHIS.

211

The train stopped; the remains of a wretched old
tramp, who had been knocked down and cut to pieces,
were picked up, and stowed away, and on we go again.
Thirty miles further another unusually severe jolt; a
bullock straying on the line has been knocked down and
made mincemeat of. We did not stop to pick up his
pieces—meat is very plentiful in Texas.
Late in the afternoon we halted at Houston for refreshment, and change of train. The rain was still
pelting down. I made my way through a street, with
mud in it reaching over my ankles, to the nearest and
best-looking hotel. Visions of a dinner had been haunting me all day, but a cut off a joint was out of the
question. I called for a chop—no good; I had to fall
back on poached eggs and toast. In the melancholy,
dirty feeding-room of a wretched hotel, with a few
miserable-looking attendants about, I sat for four hours
waiting. No bright fire to warm one's toes at, but an
evil-smelling stove in one corner.
Late in the evening we continued the journey. I had
paid for a berth in a Pullman car, but sleep was out of
the question; the jolting, smell of the stove, the abominable
draughts when the carriage-doors opened, new passengers
corning in and going to bed—it was a combination enough
to keep any one awake.
At one o'clock on Monday we arrived at Austin, the
capital of Texas, 150 miles in twenty hours! Think of
this, you who have travelled by the Flying Scotchman or
the Irish Express!
I was directed to the best hotel, a large wooden building,
and entering found no superfluous luxuries in the way of
furniture or carpets; everything was primitive. I had a
sitting-room containing a table, four chairs, a case of old

212

SKETCHES FROM TRAVEL.

wax flowers, and a bit of carpet in the middle. My
bedroom was even less luxurious than this. What could
not be cured must be endured: so off I started to find the
theatre and to rehearse the company. I walked up the
chief street of this small city of about 12,000 inhabitants,
and passed on the way strange-looking individuals, halfMexican, half-Texan, small, well-put-together, swarthy,
deep-chested little fellows, with a great deal of hair on
their faces; now and then a dapper, clean-shirted American;
or a sunburnt, sober-looking Englishman; plenty of
niggers, and a few astute and copper-skinned Indians.
I noticed all the horsemen used the Mexican saddle in
riding, and the horses, as a rule, were strong animals of
medium height, free-going, and fit to do good work.
Up some steps, over a livery stable yard, I found the
building dignified by the name of Opera House. The
auditorium was a large, bare, white-washed room, with
some hundreds of Windsor chairs arranged in rows. At
the end there was a small stage with two scenes only;
one an exterior, a copy evidently of a cheap-jack teatray, with an impossible castle, a boat and a moonlit lake,
and very green trees of the children's toy description;
the beauty of the colouring consisted in its vividness,
blue, green, yellow, brown, all in strong contrast. I t was
by a local genius; so was an interior of equally distinctive
merit. The two scenes had to represent the following-—
1st. An old churchyard in Hampshire, on one side of
the stage, and the interior of the church vestry on the
other.
2nd. A Swiss chalet in Blackwater Park.
3rd. Exterior of Blackwater House, with house divided
into library and drawing-room, verandah, and practicable
Windows.

ON THE ROAD IN TEXAS TO MEMPHIS.

213

4th. Interior of a lunatic asylum.
5th, and lastly. Fosco's drawing-room in his house at
St. John's Wood.
The reader will understand this was rather a difficult
matter. We ^could not substitute the old Shakespearian
and pre-Shakespearian method, " This is a churchyard,"
"This is a house," on a placard fastened to a curtain,
because the business was so intimately connected with
the scenes. It taxed my ingenuity considerably, particularly as the furniture consisted of a few chairs taken from
the auditorium, and a couple of borrowed tables. By
leaving a great deal to the imagination of the spectators,
the difficulty was to some extent overcome. I must not
forget to mention a little variety was made in the furniture,
on the suggestion' of the stage-manager, chairs with arms
being used for the aristocratic rooms of Glyde and Count
Fosco, chairs without arms for the vestry and asylum.
I made a few modifications in the business of the Woman
in White to suit the circumstances of the case.
After rehearsal I asked for the box-office, and was
directed to the office of the stable-keeper at the entrance
of the yard below. On my wishing to see the plan, the
owner of the premises, a thorough-going Yankee, produced
a piece of board about 12 in. by 6 in., crossed and recrossed with pencil lines, and a number of common tacks
stuck in the small squares. Seeing my surprise, he said—
" You're Wybert Reeve, I guess."
I acknowledged my identity.
"Wal, you'll have a darned good show to-night; see
them 'ere," pointing to the tacks. "Them's the seats
as is taken."
I was surprised at the number certainly, and I ventured
to remark—

214

SKETCHES FROM TRAVEL.

" That's a novel box-plan of yours."
"You bet it is; ther ain't no darned high falutin' about
that. Knock 'em out, and it's ready for to-morrow—no
waste about that article."
I agreed with him. With lighter but still doubtful
heart I returned to the hotel, after a wash and sleep and a
dismal chop, grimy and tough. I made my way to a
barber's and was shaved—shaved as only American niggers
can shave; it is their speciality, that and waiting at table.
Coming out I heard two men talking on the causeway.
" Are you going to see Wybert Reeve to-night ?"
" I guess I am," the other replied. "If my wife is
agreeable."
"Then you'd better make haste, or I reckon you'll be
just crowded out."
It was a cheerful idea, and I hastened on, and there in
front of the Opera House a brass band was playing " Rule
Britannia," and people were crowding up the steps. The
result was over 500 dollars in the room, and the play,
notwithstanding its shortcomings, was to my astonishment
wonderfully well received.
In the last act, those who have seen the piece will
remember, Fosco is strongly tempted to blow Walter
Hartright's brains out with a pistol he handles during the
scene. I was just threatening Hartright with the weapon
when, to my surprise, I heard a loud report of a gun or
pistol immediately beneath me. No one moved or took
any notice, and thinking it might be boys playing with
fire-arms in the stable-yard below, I finished the piece in
the usual way, and the audience dispersed. It was not
until the following morning I heard two of my audience
had had a difference of opinion, whether about my acting
I don't know. Anyway, they retired after the third act

ON THE ROAD IN TEXAS TO MEMPHIS.

215

to the stable-yard below to settle their little difference
with their " shooters," and one man killed the other. The
body was carried away, whilst the successful combatant, I
suppose, returned to enjoy himself. It was a treat to see
the face of the Yankee stable-keeper when I was silly
enough to ask—
" Did they arrest the murderer ? " I was assured at once
they did not do things in that part of the country in that
way.
" They didn't care a darned bit for anybody; fust come,
t'other down, that's fair and square, knife or shooter,"
which meant of course the man who was quickest with
knife or pistol, it was i( fair and square " for him to kill the
other. If civil in New Orleans, I leave the reader to
guess how civil I was in Texas. I would not have had a
difference of opinion with any one for the world.
My Yankee theatre-lessee and livery stable-keeper and
I became quite friends; he took me out a long drive next
day. I was not struck with the country, although it looked
fairly productive, or with the town, although it certainly
was clean, and tolerably well laid out. The only^ really
large building I saw in it was the Housettf Assembly, or
Court-house—a plain white building with very little pretension to architectural adornment. v
The receipts the second performance were as good as
the first, so in a pecuniary sense I was particularly well
satisfied. Returning to Houston, I found a fairly comfortable hotel to stay in, and a very good theatre; it was
crowded each performance. Houston looked a superior
town to Austin, although the latter is the chief city.
Three days here and I took train on my way to Memphis,
a long and dreary journey—wood and prairie—prairie and
wood, in endless monotony. There are very few towns in

216

SKETCHES FROM TRAVEL,

Arkansas—the huts of hunters and backwoodsmen, the
wigwams of wandering Indians, a few log-huts or weatherboard shanties of settlers, so on, mile after mile, hour after
hour, until the second day, when about four o'clock I
arrived at Little Eock. At the station here we changed
trains, and the guard of the train I was leaving playfully
asked me if my life was insured. I replied " Yes."
" That's fortunate for your relations, Mr. Reeve, I guess.
We only run one train a day on the road as you're
a-going on, and it's ten dollars to one it's smashed up
before it gets to Memphis."
A pleasant look-out this! There were Only two ordinary
carriages starting; I got into one of them. They were
both very crowded and very dirty, and I soon found the
meaning of the playful guard's warning; for over thirty
miles we ran over open iron rails, supported by piles
driven into a swamp or very soft land, with a few crossbeams to steady and strengthen the supports. The train
swayed and rolled like a ship at sea; more than half the
passengers were sick; the men and women, black and
white, cursed; the children cried. All seemed to fear
the journey or anticipate an accident. After som^ hours
the fumes from the stove, the vile tobacco, the filth
on the floor of the carriage from spitting and sickness—
well, it is beyond description! Suffice it to say, about
one o'clock in the morning we arrived on the banks of
the Mississippi opposite to Memphis, in a blinding rainstorm. We were shunted—engine, carriages, passengers
and all—on to a huge ferry-boat and taken across. I fought
my way to an omnibus, and sat down opposite a ruffianlylooking fellow with his gun between his knees. By my
side was an English lady. He persisted in spitting, and I
expostulated. He replied in choice vernacular—

ON THE KOAD IN TEXAS TO MEMPHIS.

217

"Darn ye, can I help it ? I'm in a blasted consumption.
If yer don't like it, dare out."
As he seemed inclined for action, the still pouring rain
not being inviting, and recollecting the little affair at
Austin, I remained silent for the rest of the journey. The
nigger driving the omnibus was drunk, and after several
narrow escapes from being upset we arrived at the hotel.
There, wearied and sick with the journey, I was taken up
to rooms at the top of the hotel. I had fed on cake and
fruit since leaving Galveston, to avoid the terrible stuff
supplied you on the road in the shape of refreshments,
and was naturally very hungry. The half-asleep waiter,
after a great deal of talk and the tip of a dollar, got me
a small bottle of beer and a dry loaf of bread, and on this
sumptuous repast I retired to bed, with a blessing on
Memphis for the hospitable reception I had met with, in
this town of yellow fever and bad drainage. At the
time I speak of, the whole drainage of the place flowed
into the Mississippi, to be drank again in the form of
water not even filtered in the chief hotel of the town. My
stay in this city of Tennessee put to the test a quality I
certainly possess—
" Patience—
Of whose soft grace, I have her sovereign aid,
And rest myself content"—

as a rule—but not in Memphis.

DEATH IN PARIS, AND LIFE AT ST. CLOUD.
ONE day in the time of the last Emperor, I was sauntering along the banks of the Seine, and the Quai de la
Megiss, and having crossed over the Pont au Change,
it occurred to me I might as well look into the Morgue.
Has the reader ever looked into this House of Horrors ?
If not, the following brief description may not be uninteresting. On entering, to the left of you is an iron-barred
and glass screen, within which are placed ten stone benches
with copper pillows—each bench the length of an adult—
and on these lie the nude bodies of those poor wretches
who are taken out of the river, their heads raised, so that
their faces may be more distinctly seen by the inquiring
eyes of those prompted to gaze on the sad and sometimes sickening spectacle, either in the anxious hope of
discovering some lost relative or friend, or from mere
morbid curiosity, as in my case. Here the bodies rest
until corruption forbids their longer exposure. And around
hang the motley garments, both male and female, of those
who have once had a place there. Of course the blue
blouse predominates, the dress worn by the artisans and
lower classes of Paris, but amongst them were hanging, at
the time of which I speak, three or four suits, evidently

DEATH IN PARIS, AND LIFE AT ST. CLOUD. 219
once belonging to a better class, and a still more striking
object-—a crinoline—made of a showy red and black
striped material; and above it a once gay bonnet, with
feathers and flowers, dirty and stained in the muddy
water. Here, perhaps, I thought, is a little history if
one could only read it—of
" One more unfortunate,
Weary of breath—
Rashly importunate,
Gone to her death."
On the morning of my visit lay three bodies. One was
that of an elderly man, of some sixty years of age, with
grizzled beard and shaggy brows, who, to judge from the
placid repose of his features, had met death with little
suffering. Not so the other two; the second man, about
the age of forty, had madly struggled with the destroying
waters to avoid the coming doom. His hands and fingers
were rigid, and blood had been drawn in their convulsive
grasp; the features were distorted; the eyes glared into
eternity, and seemed to bear a horrid fascination, which
made you linger in your gaze. The third body was that
of a young man three or four-and-twenty, who had
evidently been murdered and thrown into the river. His
face bore three or four gashes, and was terribly bruised.
About his body I saw several other injuries, and on his
left side and thigh were what appeared to me to be
several deep wounds made with a knife.
Imagine a sight like this in England; picture the crowd
of ragged wickedness, the noise, the excitement; but here
a stranger would not have had his attention arrested by
any circumstance more than ordinary. A few of all classes
who were passing by quietly walked in—a look, a few
whispered remarks to their fellow-gazers, and on they

20

SKETCHES FEOM TRAVEL.

passed—no noise, no chattering women. It was not
callousness, it was not indifference, in some part it might
be use; but more than all it was an orderly demeanour, in
which our foreign neighbours far outshine us. Here in
Paris are wickedness and wretchedness enough, but it
does not often outwardly offend the eye.
As I stood watching those who entered the Morgue,
I could not help thinking of this, and asking myself
why the poor of Great Britain should be allowed to
shock the eyes of modesty by those hideous figures we
encounter in our public streets. There is one great
example set before us Protestants by the poorest artisan
of a continental city or village; it is their reverence for
death, in whatever shape it is met with in their streets.
The voice is silenced and the head is uncovered, and the
mourner feels, amidst the crowd of life about him, a sense
of at least seeming sympathy.
I saw a striking instance of this after leaving the
Morgue, and attending service in Notre Dame. I turned
into the Rue de Rivoli. On the right-hand side a large
magazin, or warehouse, was closed, and several shops
adjoining; the large doorway was draped with black
cloth curtains, looped up on each side, through the centre
of which I could just discern a coffin on tressels. The
coffin and its supports were elegantly draped in black
and white; on each side of it burnt four high candles;
on the lid of the coffin lay several immortelles; at its
feet was a font of holy water, and at its head, on peering
more closely, I could see a nun, with her pale face, sombre
dress, and her hands crossed over her breast, performing
her sad vigil of prayer and watching near the dead. The
decoration and its accompaniments were purely Catholic;
of their use it is not my province to speak; I wish to call

DEATH IN PARIS, AND LIFE AT ST. CLOUD.

221

attention only to the passers-by. Standing watching for
some time, I observed not a man, woman, or child passed,
but the reverence taught by their faith was paid.
Passengers in omnibuses, voitures, and private carriages,
all alike. I am not advocating the faith itself, but contrasting one particular feature to the callous indifference
with which [we regard the mourners and the mourned.
In some parts of England death is a time of feasting. I
have seen drinks of all kinds spread out, pipes and tobacco,
and in some counties it is a common thing that drunkenness should follow. The very reflection is revolting.
I t was whilst standing and thinking somewhat in
this strain, I was aware of what I had not previously
noticed—a more than usual bustle in the streets. Conveyances of all descriptions were passing on towards the
Louvre, whilst everybody was dressed in holiday attire.
On inquiry I found it was occasioned by a grand fSte at
St. Cloud. No sooner did I hear this than I resolved to
make one of the number hurrying on to the Palais Royal.
After a hurried ddjellner at Vere's, I walked on to the
Place de la Concorde, hoping to obtain some conveyance.
I t seemed a forlorn hope. At the railway I knew there
would be a great crowd; my best chance I thought was
in obtaining a seat in one of the large and admirably contrived omnibuses, which, running on a tramway in the
middle of the road, start from a corner of the Place near
the Champs Elysees. Here a great number of persons
were waiting for their tickets. Pushing my way in
amongst them I got my toes well trampled on, was
nearly squeezed to a pancake, and sick with that peculiar oily, indescribable odour, which I fancy always
accompanies a crowd of foreigners. Just then I saw an
empty diligence going in thQ direction I was bound for*

222

SKETCHES FROM TRAVEL.

Without a word, or knowing to what place it was driving,
I ran after it, and jumped in. Many seeing my intention
and its result did the same, and before the driver or guard
knew what to say or do, we had completely filled the
conveyance. An explanation was then given, terms made,
and away we started, or rather continued, for the horses
had never stopped, but ladies and all had scrambled in
with the most amusing awkwardness and confusion.
The road resembled England's Derby day, but without
the fours-in-hand, the noise, the dust, the beggars, and
the blackguardism. Thousands were wending their way
—on foot, in carriages, voitures, diligences, omnibuses, and
every mode of conveyance. Everybody looked happy.
The bells attached to the horses' collars kept up a continual jingling, whilst the Jehus cracked their whips in
expert continental fashion. St. Cloud was reached at
length, without once quitting the animated scenes which
gratified us on the road. Crossing over the beautiful
bridge, the grassy banks of the Seine were enlivened by
many groups attired in a gay mingling of every conceivable colour, some partaking of refreshment—English
picnic fashion—others playing at a variety of games,
whilst here and there, a little apart, sat a young couple
who, imagination pictured, were engaged in a game of life
we nearly all play at least once in our lives. At the gates
of the park crowds were sitting in front of the cafis,
whilst through the gates, up the long avenue, passed
one continuous and dense mass of people. Making my
way with the rest, the surroundings were much like those
of our English fairs, with this exception, every one was
dressed, if not well, at least most cleanly. Gingerbread
was there in every possible and almost impossible device;
shooting-galleries, toys, roulette-tables, fruit-stalls, and a

DEATH IN PARIS, AND LIFE AT ST. CLOUD.

223

thousand other inducements to gather in the cents and
francs, until on reaching the fountains and cascades,
other elements of attraction were found. Here a dense
throng of persons rendered it difficult to move, and a
delightfully refreshing effect arose from the waters flowing from the fountains, the mouths of dogs, dolphins, and
other novel and artistic designs. At a height of some thirty
feet, through an opening beautiful with tree, fern, moss,
and flower, a flowing stream danced in the sunlight, and
came rushing down, cooling the heated and dusty atmosphere. Beyond the centre basin, the swings and roundabouts were in full force, reaping a copper harvest from old
and young of all classes. Here, too, were the vendors of large
cakes of gingerbread and quackery, in cocked hats and
tarnished theatrical finery—half mountebank, half swell—and all grotesque. The voices of these men positively
seemed to drown the drums and gongs of the neighbouring
shows.
I watched a strange and evidently popular machine,
formed on the principle of the centrifugal railway. A car
released from its high position passed with velocity down
an incline line of rails, and rose again on the opposite side
to a similar height. After several journeys of this kind by
means of a spring the car was set free, and as it again
made the journey, it whirled round and round in a sickening manner. But the ladies—although some of them
screamed—appeared to be in an ecstasy of pleasure and
excitement with their novel flight. Beyond these amusements again were several very large dancing-saloons, and
caravans of giants, both fat and lean; wondrous pigs,
donkeys, dwarfs, and monstrosities, of every real or
manufactured nature. Here, too, were the theatrical
booths and circuses. I saw many respectable-looking

224

SKETCHES FROM TRAVEL.

persons entering one of the former, which, according to
the proprietress, was " Just going to begin !" Outside on
the platform, a lady in muslin and a faded white dress
wig, was kicking her legs up and performing a most extraordinary series of evolutions, supposed to be a dance,
with a gentleman in an iron gray wig, and a square
coat of crimson cotton velvet, edged with very doubtful-looking silver lace. I should say the proceeding
bore an extraordinary similarity to the war-dance of the
Ojibbeway Indians. Only two sous the charge for admission. Who could resist it ? Not I. So I entered, took
my seat, or rather balanced myself on a rail, amidst a
crowded audience. To my astonishment the play was a
-—certainly original—version of an old drama well known
in England, and once a great favourite, entitled The Maid
and the Magpie. As here represented it may be thus
briefly described in English:—
ACT 1ST, SCENE 1ST.—Interior of a farm cottage,
represented by a scene of yellow pillars, on a bright red
ground, with a ceiling in perspective 4 ft. 6 in. high, of a
diamond pattern, painted yellow, blue, green, and red.
It evidently served for a palace as well as kitchen.
Enter little boy, in a medley costume, half fisherman, half
peasant. In a strange patois, he informed the audience
his mistress was an " old cow of an English roast beef."
After which the heroine entered—the lady in muslin, who
had been engaged in the extraordinary evolutions on the
outside. She was kind enough to inform us her father had
gone to the wars, and she was compelled to be in service.
No sooner was the information given than a gentleman
appeared, dressed in blue and silver, with a dirty white
dress wig on, whom I had noticed outside beating a cracked
gong. He held out his arms, and with a cry of "Mon

DEATH IN PARIS, AND LIFE AT ST. CLOUD.

225

pere," the young lady pitched herself into them. After a
little domestic talk, he bequeathed to her his only inheritance, his sole fortune, after passing through a life of
foreign service—an unmistakable pewter teaspoon. An
embrace, and of course a blessing—(stage fathers always
give a blessing)—and he departed. Upon which the old
dame entered, informed us she was going out for a stroll,
and desired her maid to get her dinner ready, and look after
the spoons. A cloth is laid. We will not mention the colour.
Three empty plates, one knife and fork, and three spoons
decorate the table; and enter upon the scene " Mon Pkre "
—now bearing the appearance of a Victorian theatre first
robber, disguised in cloak, hat, and extensive beard. He
is now supposed to be the Jew who purchases the spoon—
the blue and silver was, however, quite apparent, as was
the dirty white-washed face; however, he bought the
maid's inheritance, and exeunt both parties. Enter from
the window, on the end of a wire, a something-—I beg its
pardon, I mean a black magpie—without wings, tail, or
feet. After standing on its head several times on the
table, a dirty hand followed it, with blue and silver sleeve,
"Mon Pkre" again; the hand seized the spoon; both disappeared, and down came the curtain. Act 1st. Time,
seven minutes.
ACT 2ND, SAME SCENE.—Old lady misses the spoon,
accuses the maid, who with a frantic cry of " Innocent,
innocent!" turned with an aside to the wings a sort of,
" Why don't you come on ?" and two men took the hint;
one had been beating the drum, the other blowing the
trumpet up to that moment outside. The girl is given
into custody; one man betraying an uncertainty of action
receives from the maid a dig in the ribs which hastens his
movements. General consternation of old woman and
little boy. End of Act 2nd. Five minutes.
Q

226

SKETCHES FROM TRAVEL.

ACT 3RD, A PRISON.—A benevolent clergyman, the
gentleman in the square-cut, who had been dancing
outside, blesses the maid, tells her she must prepare to be
hanged. The maid did not appear to like the idea. Upon
the clergyman informing her he will see it is done comfortably, she again invited the officers of justice, who entering
lead her away to execution. Scene changes to Cottage.
Enter little boy, who counts some TIN conveniently near
the window, when the dirty magpie bobs on, stands on its
head in his hand, and bobs off again with a piece. The
boy of course ran after it, and the dame walked on
lamenting the loss of her spoon, when the boy returned,
calling to the executioner, a few streets off, that the maid
is innocent, and showing the stolen spoon. Executioner
obligingly releases the girl, who rushes on with a cry of
" Free, free !" " Mon Pere " hears it a few hundred miles
off—comes, I suppose, along the electric wires. Maid
rushes into his arms—general tableaux of joy. End of
piece. Entire time of personation, sixteen minutes.
Dramatis persona? engaged—One boy, two men, and two
ladies, soldiers not counting.
Here's an achievement that many a strolling manager
might envy. The only representation I have seen worthy
it, was on one occasion when Macbeth was enacted by
seven individuals and a child.
Somewhat wearied of the noise and clamour, I wandered
away into some of those beautiful avenues that here branch
off, leading to little woodland dells and peeps of tangled
forest scenery, which but for the distant noise might call
up pictures of that delicious sylvan solitude apostrophized
by the Duke in As You Like It.
I had noticed many stalls of large melons in various
parts of the grounds and without the gates, and had
looked at them with surprise. The mystery was, however,

DEATH IN PARIS, AND LIFE AT ST. CLOUD. 227
solved, for on leaving the throng of booths, I found,
although the grass was wet with dew as if rain had fallen,
many parties sitting and enjoying refreshments, and in
nearly every case I noticed it consisted of some greasylooking pastry or dry bread, one or two melons, and a
bottle of vin ordinaire, and on this they appeared to be
making a hearty meal. Fancy an English stomach with
the same relish! But we spend in good food what the
foreign artisan and shopkeeper spend on pleasure, and are
happy in doing so.
At length darkness, so I retraced my steps, and emerged
upon the gay /Ste on some high ground. As if by
magic the whole scene had been illuminated by Chinese
lanterns, variegated lamps, and every possible device and
means to aid the brilliancy of the spectacle. Standing
there and looking down, what a strange scene ! Thousands
of faces shining in the light—music of all descriptions
mingled with the busy hum of many voices. From this
point rose the strains of the bands in the large dancingsaloons, whilst the shadows of the dancers flitted on the
canvas. From there the noisy showman, with gong or
trumpet, or barrel-organ, appealed to the multitude.
Here the roulette table keeper gathered in his silly dupes.
Still round and round whirled the roundabouts; crack!
crack! went the rifles at the shooting-galleries; whilst far
away stretched the avenues of brilliantly lit stalls under
the overhanging trees.
At length I descended, and hustling through the
throng, which had become denser, I sallied out into
the square of cafds and refreshment-houses. Here sat
hundreds more. Making my way to the omnibus station,
I found it useless without waiting for a seat a longer

228

SKETCHES FROM TRAVEL.

time than my patience would permit. Crossing the
bridge, there each conveyance crowded, until at length
I found room in a sort of Irish car. At the gates of the
Bois de Boulogne stood officials ready to examine the
conveyance, and see it was not overladen—another hint
which both humanity and safety might recommend to our
police regulations on such occasions. At the commencement of the Champs Elysees again came the sound of
music, the dazzle of Chinese lamps, and illuminations from
amongst the trees surrounding the pagodas and the cafe's;
again the dancing, refreshments, and light-hearted gaiety.
But to speak of the streets of Paris, with its unsubstantial yet captivating life, would be but to recapitulate a
scene familiar, doubtless, to many readers, so passing on
I reached the Theatre du Chatelet. Here I saw The
Secret of Mistress Aurora, and learnt for the first time,
judging from the dressing of the characters, Yorkshire was
in the Highlands of Scotland; and here, too, I was made
blush for the costume of my country in the shape of two
London policemen, who were made to burlesque the
originals, as if they were not bad enough—the coats were
much too large, and the hats were shockingly bad ones.
The piece lasted the entire evening, and wound up with
the Ghost of Mr. Conyers, and half a dozen other ghosts,
in white sheets and chalked faces. Who they were was
left to the imagination of the audience. It was simply
Mr. Pepper made the most of. As the ghosts vanished
so did I—into the quiet streets, and took my way back to
the hotel. The next day I found to my surprise was
Monday, and I had enjoyed this frolicsome time at St.
Cloud and the Chatelet on Sunday without knowing it.

A NIGHT ON THE DRACHENFELS, AND U P
THE NIEDERWALD.
W E took tickets for Koningswinter, as I had made
up my mind to see the sunrise from the Drachenfels.
Koningswinter is a small town at the foot of the seven
mountains. It is the commencement of a region of
castles, mountains, and vineyards. Arriving there, we
walked through the village to the foot of the ascent, and
here found mules and donkeys waiting. Having rather a
heavy knapsack, I at once mounted on the back of a mule.
My friend was about to do the same. Thinking, I suppose,
we were fair game, the drivers demanded twelve groschen
instead of ten. I felt inclined to pay, my friend did
not; and whilst the dispute was going on, two fellows had
coolly marched off with our baggage up the bridal path.
We were compelled to follow, leaving the mule-drivers
much chagrined at their disappointment, and for a time
we certainly enjoyed the joke, but the rascals had their
revenge in the walk we had to encounter beneath a
scorching sun. For three-quarters of an hour we trudged
up the steep ascent, through vineyards and plantations,
past the old quarry, worked some six hundred years ago,
from which the stone was taken for the building of Cologne
Cathedral. At length we reached a small piece of table-

230

SKETCHES FROM TRAVEL.

land, on which stands the little hotel, built somewhat in
the Swiss fashion, on a point of rock a thousand feet above
the river. A couple of mules were standing at the door,
and a few Germans were grouped under the trees partaking of refreshments. Paying our guides the ten
groschen each demanded, we engaged rooms of a very
civil landlord, who spoke English quite sufficiently to be
understood.
Our sitting-room and bedrooms were beautifully clean,
devoid of carpet and any superfluous luxuries, which, in
a region like this, you cannot expect to meet. In the
former, a French window opened on to a little balcony,
where beneath you lay a precipice of hundreds of feet;
before you the valley of the Khine, the river meandering
along through a grand scene, and the little green isle of
Nonnewerth, celebrated in the " Legend of Roland" and
Schiller's ballad of " Hitter Toggenburg," laying calm and
beautiful in its centre.
After ablutions and a good draught of hot milk, we
started up the little rocky path leading to the ruin. How
vividly is this poetic description of Byron's illustrated !
"The castled crag of Drachenfels
Frowns o'er the wide and winding Rhine,
Whose breast of waters broadly swells
Between the banks which bear the vine;
And hills all rich with blossom'd trees,
And fields which promise corn and wine;
And scatter'd cities crowning these,
Whose far white walls along them shine."

A woman was in waiting in the ruins, with a brash and
a small pot of black paint, for you to write your name on
the walls; but recalling a similar instance in the farmhouse of Hougoumont, on the field of Waterloo, "Write

A NIGHT ON THE DRACHENFELS.

231

your name, ladies and gentlemen, and hand them down to
posterity," said the guide. After a little conversation and
a liberal fee, I asked him, "How is it you contrive to
make room for names all these years?" "Well, sir, I
don't mind telling you," he replied; " we whitewash the
walls every year or so, and make a fresh start."
We had been sitting up here for some time, when,
winding up the mountain path, we saw two mules, bearing
young ladies dressed very much in the English fashion,
and by close examination with our glasses, we came to
the conclusion English they must be, no less to our
surprise than our gratification. For about eight days we
had not heard a countrywoman's voice, and we both
agreed upon the enjoyment it would add to the romance
of time and place; we hurried down, arriving at the hotel
at the same time. They were a couple of very pretty
young girls. My friend, more bold than myself, directly
an opportunity occurred, offered his lorgnette, which was
immediately accepted with a smile. " All right," said he,
digging me in the ribs. The glass evidently was in unpractised hands, for it was quickly returned with numerous
ejaculations, very forcibly expressed, in a jargon which we
detected as Dutch; and not understanding it we nodded
and grinned, trying to make them comprehend we were
ignorant of the language. Their papa joining them at the
moment, to him we presume we were introduced, judging
from the gestures. We nodded and grinned again—tried
French—no use—made a desperate attempt at a little
German, broke down, and bowing, walked crestfallen
enough away.
At length the evening began to close in. Two or three
mules, with their drivers, awaited under the trees to convey
their hirers back to the neighbouring villages. Far away

232

SKETCHES FEOM TRAVEL.

over the plains of Belgium and Holland, the sun went
down, and for the first time in my life did I here see
realized those gorgeous and seeming impossible hues which
Turner has imparted to some of his pictures. As the light
gradually faded, some half-dozen Germans in the ruins
sang the beautiful glee of " Our Fatherland." Their
voices floated towards us, and lent a charm to the hour
and spot which the pen can but feebly convey. Darkness
at length made us seek shelter in the hotel. Going up
to our sitting-room we ordered cigars and coffee, and
flinging open the window, I sat on the balcony whilst
my friend wrote home. Lights were gradually appearing
in the different little villages scattered along the banks of
the river, whilst from several Prussian fortresses the drumroll, bugle-call, and distant boom of artillery came echoing
from mountain and valley, giving a reality to the visions
of war and historic romance which invested the land.
At twelve o'clock we went to bed, and at three in the
morning I was awake and stirring. A dull haze lay over
the river and mountains, whilst the night-clouds were but
slowly dispersing. Awakening my friend, we dressed ourselves, and walked up to the ruins to await the sunrise.
The air was rather cold, so lighting our pipes, we got into
a little sheltered nook and patiently waited. Probably
half an hour had elapsed, and a distant hum of many
voices came towards us. Looking along the road in the
direction of Koningswinter, we could just discern about
two hundred persons. We watched them until they
passed at our feet, looking like black atoms in motion,
their voices reaching us, though so distant, clear and
bell-like. I judged they were a party of villagers singing
hymns, and passing on to the church of Rheinbreitbach,
& village about three miles away, the bells of which we

A NIGHT ON THE DKACHENFELS.

233

could distinctly hear ringing for service, although the hour
was then about a quarter to four. Watching these receding figures, our eyes encountered, far up the Khine, a thick
white cloud sweeping down the valley. On it came, the
riskig mists so dense, all objects were gradually hidden
from us. Passing the lofty rock on which we stood, it left
us as though suspended in the clouds; the castle-keep of
Godesberg, the Towers of Bonn, and the far-off Cathedral
of Cologne, which had been plainly visible near the horizon,
were lost to us, and beneath us still floated a vapour so
opaque, it looked as if you might leap and rest within its
fleecy shroud.
We knew this was the signal of the rising sun, and
gazing over the mountains of Stromberg and Niederstromberg, we saw the golden reflection of its dawn.
Presently, like a ball of fire over the mountain-crests, he
came, so brilliant, we were dazzled and burnt by its rays.
Then the mists of morning dispersed, and rocks, trees,
vineyards, and river lay once more beneath us. It was
now past five o'clock, so returning to the hotel, we turned
in again, and slept until nine. After I had made a sketch
of the ruins, we walked down to Koningswinter for a swim
in the river. The heat was intense; the deep blue sky,
without a shadow, seemed to add to its intensity. Several
parties of villagers were ascending, it being Sunday, dressed
in their best; whilst children plied for custom for little
wreaths, beautifully plaited, of the young vine, which it
seemed customary to purchase to decorate your head with.
At Koningswinter we hired a boat for eighteen groschen
the hour, and, rowing into the middle of the river, I
undressed and plunged into the cold, refreshing stream.
My companion, not liking to do the same, gradually
lowered himself into the water, which, in consequence

234

SKETCHES FROM TRAVEL.

of the heat previously endured, brought on a severe fit of
sickness, shortening very considerably our enjoyment.
Ascending again to the hotel, we ordered dinner, some
really very good salmon, and roast beef tolerably cooked.
The expense for rooms, coffee, peaches, breakfast, dinner,
bottle of very good Bass's ale, and attendance, with a
bottle of rather superior Rhine wine, amounted to only 6
thalers and 27 sgr.; in English money about 10s. 6d. each,
and it must be remembered the salmon was nearly Is. Qd.
each, an extra charge. This was cheap enough for so much
enjoyment. Having to wait at Koningswinter for the
boat, we went into the Hotel de TEurope, the house
engaged for the residence of the Prince of Wales, in 1857,
for seven weeks, at an expense of 24,000 thalers. Here
we met with a talkative little German, who had been
engaged as a guide to the Prince. He was full of anecdotes, illustrative of his affability, and was particularly
pleased with the Prince for shaking hands with him on
their meeting at Oxford, during the German's first and
only visit to England. We had booked for Coblentz, and
were seven hours performing the journey, a little over
twenty miles.
At Coblentz we visited the fortress of < Ehrenbreitstein, renowned for the wonderful strength of its position,
its 400 cannon, and the view from the top, which is
certainly very fine, extending as far as the mountains of
Lorraine. We had a look at the old castle near the
Moselle Bridge, and the church of St. Castor, the towers
of which have stood since 836, where the grandsons of
Charlemagne met to divide his mighty empire into
Germany, France, and Italy, and where our Edward the
Third was installed Vicar of the Empire by Lewis of
Bavaria.

A NIGHT ON THE DRACHENFELS.

235

At two o'clock we departed for Bingen, and in this
journey consists the most beautiful portion of the river.
On each side a succession of high rugged mountains,
many of which are covered with the grape, more beautiful
in September than when I visited it before the fruit was
ripe, and it was still more beautiful. Every travelled
Englishman and Englishwoman knows Rhineland, with its
old fortresses and castles, memorials of feudal times—the
stately magnificence of Stolzenfels, the old Roman town
of Boppart, the rock of Lurlei, the precipice and relics
of Lurleiberg—the Devil's Ladder, and the ruins of
Rheinfels. About six o'clock we arrived at Bingen.
Meeting with a young German gentleman on board
bound for Wiesbaden, and an Englishman on his way to
the Danube, they agreed to join us as far as Mayence.
After a swim in the morning, about half-past six, from
a floating bath, we engaged a boat and guide, and rowed
across the river to Assmanshausen, from which village the
fine red wine derives its name. The grape here grows on
steep terraced heights, in some places 1000 feet high, and
the gatherers are suspended in baskets. The great gorge
of the Rhine terminates here. After passing for about a
mile through a kind of gully, a narrow road leads to the
heights of Niederwald. Avoiding the bridle-path we
decided to ascend by the nearest way. Up a rugged path
for about three-quarters of an hour we toiled, arriving at
last at the Jagd Schloss, an old Swiss-looking farm-house,
where wine is made and where refreshment may be had.
After enjoying a couple of bottles—for we had suffered a
good deal from heat in the climbing—our guide led us
first to the Bezamberte Hohle, or magic cave. From
thence, through three little windows, we had lovely peeps,
resembling a diorama, one looking direct through an

236

SKETCHES FROM TRAVEL,

artificially cut avenue of sight across the Rhine to the
Castle of Rheinstein, a small and beautifully-situated little
place, standing on the verge of a precipice, and then fitted
up by the Prince of Prussia as an occasional summer residence. A second window looked towards a small cottage
on the opposite side of the Rhine, and a third through a
beautifully-cut avenue. From this magic cave we went to
the Rossel, an artificial ruin, on the very outpost of a
precipice, overlooking the eddies of the Bingenloch,
considered by the residents in this part of the world as the
most magnificent view in the whole of Rhineland.
Here, too, is seen a strange phenomenon. In the centre
the Rhine is a clear green; the Nahe, close to the left bank,
is a dirty brown; and the Maine, at the right bank, a dull
red; the waters, though running in one stream, not
mingling until they arrive at the Pool of the Lurlei, some
miles below. From here we seemed to look on a land of
enchantment; far, far as the eye could reach, it rested on
the wild, the romantic, and the picturesque. The Castle
of Ehrenfels on its rocky base; into distant space stretches
the land across the mountains of Bergstrasse and Odenwald; rocks and precipices, mountain, valley, and rivers.
The path we traversed now again sank into a thick forest,
with some of the best timber I had seen on my journey.
In about a mile we came to a small temple, where another
fine prospect is seen, and from thence we descended by a
path in the midst of vineyards to Rhudesheim. I was
looking upon the old castle of Bromserberg, and thinking
over the guide-book story of an only daughter of a knight
of Bromser, who was consecrated to the Church according
to a vow made by him on being made prisoner by the
Saracens if he ever returned to his native home. She had
of course loved a noble knight, and on being ordered to

A NIGHT ON THE DKACHENFEL&

237

prepare for the veil, one stormy night threw herself from
those battlements into the Rhine; and hence, in storm
and darkness, the villagers and fishermen to this day fancy
they see the spirit of Gisela hovering around, and
mingling her lamentations with the howling wind. When
looking over towards Bingen, I saw the steamer we
intended to proceed by leaving the opposite shore. Shouting to my companions we ran down at double quick time.
On approaching the village sounds of mirth reached our
ears, and many persons in the picturesque costumes of
their country were about. It was the fair, or some
particular fete day, unlike a fair I visited in Belgium, were
dirt, shows, stalls, and gingerbread reminded me too
strongly of Manchester and Sheffield. Here everything
and everybody looked so clean and happy; pretty in their
costumes, and ruddy in their looks, with laughing eyes the
village girls looked at us intruders, as from house to house,
over doors and wmdows, figures of saints and trees, they
hung garlands of flowers. Followed by a little crowd, we
had just time to leap into the boat and row off to the
steamer that waited for us, and when on its deck I looked
back with regret as some few stragglers remained and
waved us a farewell.

ROUND ABOUT GADSHILL.
SOME few years ago I arranged with friends belonging
to the same literary club in London to have an outing from
Saturday to Monday, and Gadshill was the place selected
on this occasion. I say on this occasion, for we often made
up small parties of good fellows to visit odd nooks and
corners of London or the country. Sometimes it was to
trace out the few standing mementoes of the time of
Shakespeare, the spots where the playhouses of his day
stood; at another, the familiar scenes of Dr. Johnson or
Goldsmith; the haunts of Jack Sheppard as described by
Ainsworth; the spots made dear to us in the works of
Dickens. At another time it was to the churchyard where
Gray wrote his elegy, or anywhere, in fact, where the spirit
of dramatist, novelist, or poet had lingered, no matter how
changed its surroundings. As a proof of our earnestness, I
remember, after a meeting of the Urban Club at St. John's
Gate—the only memorial in London left, that I know of,
of the Order of Knights Templars—where the Gentleman's
Magazine was first published, and Dr. Johnson got his first
literary employment, and where David Garrick first gave
a specimen of his powers before his old friend Johnson and
the printers—here we had a dispute if Wallis, the painter,
was correct in his celebrated picture of the death of

EOUND ABOUT GADSHILL,

239

Chatterton, painting St. Paul's in the distance, seen
through the window of the garret where he died, and at
two o'clock in the morning we started off to the place to
decide the question.
However, all this has nothing to do with Gadshill, our
destination. A return ticket to Gravesend for 2s. 6d., and
a walk along the dusty main road running by the marshes,
past Chalk church, with the funny stone-carving over the
door, of a comical old monk, sitting cross-legged, and a
foaming pot of sack or home-brewed in his hands. So
on to Gadshill, to the Falstaff Inn, opposite the house
where Dickens lived and died. Looking at the peaceful,
old-fashioned hostelry and its surroundings, who could
suppose it was standing on a spot once notorious for its
robbers?—for Sir George Man wood, chief Baron of Exchequer, somewhere about the year 1590 writes:—"It is the
resort of'desperate ruffians/' who, like fat Jack Falstaff s
companions, rode horses, wore masks, and waylaid travellers. Falstaff knew this when he planned:—"My lads,
my lads, to-morrow morning, by four o'clock, early at Gadshill : There are pilgrims going to Canterbury with rich
offerings, and traders riding to London with fat purses: I
have visors for you all, you have horses for yourselves."
Mine host, John Brown, welcomes us. We all knew him
as not long since a waiter at the Cheshire Cheese, of
refreshing, or refreshment, memory—the place for chops
and steaks, beef-steak pudding, pancakes, and punch—
where, in its old rooms, sanded floors, uncomfortable but
delightful benches, the shadow of Johnson, Goldsmith, and
Garrick, with little Boswell looking in at the door, waiting
to see his unwieldy friend home, seems to hang around.
It is one of very few places associated with these men
which has retained any of the old form. The seat waa
still there which supported Johnson's ponderous frame \

240

SKETCHES FROM TRAVEL.

the very table may be there on which he corrected the
manuscript of the " Deserted Village," for Goldsmith. In a
brick house looking upon a dismal lane, some three or
four feet wide, within a stone's-throw of the Cheshire
Cheese, stood the house where Goldsmith lodged at that
time, when he was so hard up he could not pay his rent,
and it was the influence of Johnson and the sale of the
" Deserted Village " saved him from prison. To return to
the Falstaff—
"Well, John Brown, glad to see you. Is this better
than the Cheshire Cheese ?"
" I believe you, sir, for I am my own master, and I'm
doing fust-rate. Step up-stairs, gentlemen."
Up the stairs we followed, to our cosy sitting-room and
clean, sweet- smelling little bedrooms. A good wash, and a
clearing of the dust from our throats, and we took a turn
on the outside of the inn. Away in the distance is Strood,
Rochester, and Chatham, and here at our side on some
rising ground is a monument to Charles Larkin. Who he
was, or what he did to have an obelisk to himself, I don't
know, and care less> for there before us is Gadshill-place.
We picture the queer, small boy some time about the years
1817 and 1821 as Charles Dickens pictures himself:—
" Bless you, sir," said the very queer, small boy, " when I
Was not more than half as old as nine it used to be a treat
for me to be brought to look at it, and now I am nine I
come myself to look at it. And ever since I can recollect,
tny father, seeing me so fond of it, has often said to me, ' If
you were to be very persevering, and were to work hard,
you might some day come to live in it.' Though that's
impossible, said the very queer small boy, drawing a low
breath, and now staring at the house out of the window
with all his might." Strange, when the " queer small boy "
has grown into a man, and his name is known and loved

ROUND. ABOUT GADSHILL.

241

by the whole English-speaking race, there his hard life's
work should end!
The "old-fashioned, cheerful, and comfortable house,
that is really pleasant to look at," is just the home you
can imagine the "good old recjbor" lived in six-and-twenty
years—it might be the old squire's, or the well-to-do
country doctor's. In 1856 Dickens bought it, improved
it, and shortly after settled there. At our side was the
shrubbery, connected with the house by an underground
passage below the main road which he made; the two
magnificent cedars, and the Swiss chalet presented to
him by Fechter the actor. " I have put five mirrors in
the chalet where I write, and they reflect and refract, in all
kinds of ways, the leaves that are quivering at the
windows, and the great fields of waving corn, and the
sail-dotted river. My room is up among the branches
of the trees; and the birds and the butterflies fly in and
out, and the green branches shoot in at the open windows,
and the lights and shadows of the clouds come and go
with the rest of the company. The scent of the flowers,
and indeed everything that is growing for miles and miles,
is most delicious." So he describes it, and where but
in England can we read such a description ? It is redolent
of its beauties. In "1870 he had died, and as I looked
at the house and chalet I was reminded of his own words
in speaking at the Academy dinner of the death of Maclise,
the painter, and his lost friend, " No artist of whatsoever
denomination, I make bold to say, ever went to his rest
leaving a golden memory more pure from dross, or having
devoted himself with a truer chivalry to the art goddess
whom we worshipped,"—and these were the last public
words that fell from his own eloquent lips.
Charles Dickens, his son, was to have joined us on
the Sunday morning—he was a friend, and a member
R

242

SKETCHES FROM TRAVEL.

of the club—but not turning up we started without him,
after an early walk to Higham, rich in its fruit-gardens,
the trees literally bending under the weight of ruddy
apples, golden pears, plums, and gooseberries the size
of walnuts. On we walked to Cobham-park, the seat
of the Darnleys, through Kentish woods and fields, by
hawthorn hedgerows, bright with the wild rose, intertwined with the delicate convolvulus; the emerald green
of the grass here and there brilliant with the yellow
primrose and the graceful bluebell; bunches of forget-menots nestled in odd places, and daisies and buttercups
carpeted the fields.
In the park browsed a thousand head of deer—and
what glorious trees! The oak, beech, chestnut, the
magnificent avenue of elms from Darnley-house to the
village of Cobham, and there we turned into the Leather
Bottle, the little inn immortalized by Pickwick—
"The three friends entered a long, low-roofed room, furnished
with a large number of high-backed, leather-cushioned chairs of
fantastic shapes, and embellished with a great variety of old portraits
and roughly-coloured prints of some antiquity."

More than thirty years had passed since Pickwick
and his friends entered this room, but here were the
chairs, and the pictures, and the room exactly as described,
sacred to the description of Dickens. It was a sacrilegious
hand that would dare to disturb it, in the opinion of
the landlord. We sat down round the table, ordered
bread and cheese and ale, called for a volume of Pickwick
and E. L. Blanchard, the kind-hearted and genial journalist, critic, and dramatist, the author of the Dmry-lane
pantomimes for the last thirty years, read to us the ninth
chapter of the Pickwick Papers, describing the eventful
history of the Pickwickians' visit to this inn, and the great
antiquarian discovery of the stone with the strange

ROUND ABOUT GADSHILL.

243

inscription, which, deprived of its mystery, turned out to
be " Bil Stumps His Mark," and then we saw the stone
outside a cottage-door. There close by the churchyard
where Pickwick walked with Tupman to and fro, we
walked, not arguing but noting the inscriptions, 70-70 8090, nearly all the sleepers turned or turning to "second
childishness, and mere oblivion." What a contrast to
the great cities, or here in Australia, in this so-called
lovely climate of the southern seas!—there are no such
records as in this quiet old Kentish village graveyard.
We talked of lives passed in such a village and ended
there; we read some funny old attempts at verse, appealing
to the hearts perhaps of the rustics who had mourned
friend or relation. Then we returned through the avenue
of elms chasing squirrels, which I am happy to say we did
not catch. Like boys out on a holiday, we had a little
leap-frog, a little singing, some running, and much enjoyment. We returned through the woods, and the primroses
and harebells, to the Flagstaff Inn in time for a good
dinner, which was eaten with a healthy appetite. After*
wards an evening passed, as it only can be passed, with
a few choice spirits from the better Bohemian life of
London. How I slept that night, with the window open,
and the clematis and honeysuckle peering in, and filling
the room with odour! A good breakfast in the morning,
and we returned to noisy, smoky London, I believe wiser,
certainly better, for what we had seen, our lungs invigorated with the pure air, the scent of the woods and flowers,
and the music of the birds still clinging to our senses and
filling our thoughts. Who says the enjoyment of such
things is not a religion?—a religion of purity, freedom,
thankfulness to the Creator of so much beauty as one
may find in an outing round about Gadsbill*

A GOSSIP BY STARLIGHT OVER THE BLACK
SPUR.
" Y E S , I have been a surveyor of roads and bridges in
this colony for over twenty-five years, and nearly all that
time has been spent in this district, within a radius of
about sixty miles, except a spell I had in Gippsland, and
another lately down near Melbourne." The speaker was talking with me outside a favourite
country hotel, not a hundred miles from Melbourne, in the
neighbourhood of mountains, valleys, waterfalls, marvellous
trees and ferns. The evening was very fine, the air and
scent from the bush delightful, and the sky more bright
and glittering with stars than I have seen it for years. I
smoked, and my new acquaintance smoked and talked. I
listened. He was an old man, muscular, and weatherbeaten, with strongly-marked features, and plenty of the
true Bushman's grit left in him still to face the storms of
the hills, or the dangers of the roads. I suppose it was
not often he met with a companion so ready to listen, and
he enjoyed the moonlight gossip.
" This is the main road into Gippsland, and you can go
by it even to the New South Wales border. They started
it in the beginning of 1864. The old one was a rough
and bad one to travel. It's about seven miles from here

GOSSIP BY STARLIGHT OVER THE BLACK SPUR. 245
by way of Mount Strickland and Paradise Plains. When
it was making we had six hundred men employed. About
here there was quite a small town of canvas tents and
bark huts. As we moved along we took our butcher,
baker, and storekeeper with u s ; but it was sometimes
precious difficult to get supplies. I t was the time of the
rush to the Wood's Point gold-fields, and if they could
push on there with the provisions they did—it paid better.
When this hotel was built it cost £16 a ton to bring the
materials about forty miles; oats were 14s. per bushel, and
chaff 14s. a cwt. The present post service began in the
early part of 1865. I remember when Archibald Grant
used to carry the mails—I think he was the first mailman
—he would ride a hundred miles with them through all
weathers. You couldn't match Archibald. I have seen
him, and helped him out of waterholes and snow. Sometimes his horse, unable to go a foot further, completely
bogged, had to be hoisted out at daylight; but Archibald
would trudge on, no matter what obstacle came in his
way. Sir, would you believe it, he was hardly known to
miss a mail. I question if there was ever his equal in
that line. What with road-making and gold-seeking we
had some queer fellows about here in those times—an
Englishman who could talk his Latin and Greek sometimes shoulder to shoulder with an ex-convict; there was
no respect of persons or places. The well-born ones
generally went to the wall—they couldn't stand the hard
life. Hundreds of them died here, as well as elsewhere in
Australia. No one knew who their friends were. I have
often thought of the many people at home belonging to
these new chums who have waited and waited for tidings
that never came.
" Down on the Thomson and Aberfeldy Rivers there are

246

SKETCHES FROM TRAVEL.

living even now well-bred fellows who in a solitary life
have grown old and gray. They live alone; it becomes
part of their nature, and if ever another man settles near
they generally move off. I have had the feeling myself,
living in the bush; I have grown to like it, and felt
annoyed at any one disturbing my solitude. Some of these
men almost lose the knowledge of their own language, and
talk a queer sort of jargon made up of slang and oaths.
They own a bit of land, grow a few potatoes and cabbages,
perhaps a little wheat, keep a dog or two; some of them
own a wretched old screw of a horse, and two or three pigs.
They scrape about for a little gold; sometimes they get it.
Whatever they have they usually barter at the nearest
store for other things; money hardly ever changes hands.
If a little flush when they are still comparatively young, a
few of them will go to Melbourne for two or three days'
spree and knock it down; then back they come to the old
life. Many of these chaps have known good homes and
plenty of friends in their childhood. They don't often
marry, and if they do, their wives and children vegetate
like animals in the same way; bodily needs are the only
consideration. There was a man called Richard Orellen, a
native of Dublin, who lived for years at Donovan's Creek.
Once in perhaps a year or eighteen months he used to
come to this store"—pointing to the bar of the hotel,
which contained the most extraordinary medley from
boots to pickles. " He would bring up such things as he
could grow or collect to barter with, exchange them for
tea, tobacco, boots, &c, and return to the creek. I remember seeing him one of these visits and saying, ' Dick,
some of these days you'll be taken ill, or die in that hut of
yours/ He only grunted out, ' he didn't want no damned
cuss near him.' One day a man visited the hut, and

GOSSIP BY STARLIGHT OVER THE BLACK SPUR. 247
there he found the trunk of Crellen; the wild dogs had
eaten off his legs, arms, and head.
" If you go along this road to Wood's Point, between
there and Walhalla, there's a road cut in the side of the
mountains only about four feet wide. I have gone along
it at night. On the one side is a deep precipice; I can
assure you it's ticklish work; and out there on the Dargo
Plains, between the months of June and October, the snow
is so deep the Government have put up forked poles to
guide you on the track; it's the only guide you have.
Before it was done there was fifty chances to one you'd be
lost at night. Scores of men have perished on those
plains in the snow.
" You see that dog " (pointing to a brown retriever—a
bright-eyed, intelligent-looking beast). " He is a wonderful
traveller; I have known him go with me day after day a
journey of fifty miles, and as he runs, it would be seventy,
without flinching, and it is queer to see him if the dingoes
are about.
" I n the Black Biver district, between Matlock and
Mount Lookout, there are a number of wild dogs, larger
than the dingo. These starved brutes will follow a horseman at a distance for many miles, and woe to the man or
animal if he gives them a chance. They will only attack
a man when he cannot defend himself; but on a horse, or
dog, they're death, if they fall on the way. When you are
riding at night, you can hear the curs following in the
bush. I have sometimes stopped to listen, but they're so
knowing they stop too. Well, my dog there, if we are in
their neighbourhood, you don't catch him a yard from the
horse. I have seen him follow for miles, almost under the
horse's belly.
" Talking of Walhalla, I suppose you know there was a

248

SKETCHES FROM TRAVEL.

very rich gold-mine there. They have the most improved
and expensive machinery that can be had for money, yet a
knowing fellow, who erected a mill lower down the creek
to catch the tailings, made a splendid thing of it. Still
lower down, another, and another man has done the same
thing, and I hear the third man was doing better than
either of the others. I hear a fourth is going to try his
luck. This will give you a little idea of the enormous
waste of gold with even the best machinery used. Millions
have been taken out of the earth in Australia, and millions
have gone back to it again, wasted by imperfect appliances.
By Jove! it's eleven o'clock," suddenly said my friend,
looking at his watch; "how quickly time passes! Goodnight, sir."
" Good-night," I replied. I had a last look at the stars
and the mountains, and a sniff of the great trees and bush
in front. Then I turned into bed, and dreamt I was in
the Black River district, between Matlock and Mount
Lookout, with a pack of wild dogs at my heels. I made a
fearful effort to escape, but at last succumbed, when they
seized upon my nose. I woke up with a cry; it was only
an abominable mosquito; the room was full of them. I
killed it, and was afterwards lost on the Dargo Plains,
twenty feet deep in snow.

THE END.

Richard Clay & Sons, Limited, London & Bungay.