Fifteen Chapters of Autobiography
"the parallelogram between Oxford Street, Piccadilly, Regent Street, and
Hyde Park, enclosed more intelligence and ability, to say nothing of
wealth and beauty, than the world had ever collected in such a space
before." This was very well for Sydney (who lived in Green Street); but
he flourished when Belgravia had barely been discovered, when South
Kensington was undreamed-of; and, above all, before the Heir Apparent
had fixed his abode in Pall Mall. Had he lived till 1863, he would have
had to enlarge his mental borders.
Of the delightful women and beautiful girls who adorned Society when I
first knew it, I will not speak. A sacred awe makes me mute. The
"Professional Beauties" and "Frisky Matrons" who disgraced it, have, I
hope, long since repented, and it would be unkind to revive their names.
The "Smart Men," old and young, the "cheery boys," the "dancing
dogs,"--the Hugo Bohuns and the Freddy Du Canes--can be imagined as
easily as described. They were, in the main, very good fellows;
friendly, sociable, and obliging; but their most ardent admirers would
scarcely call them interesting; and the companionship of a club or a
ballroom seemed rather vapid when compared with Oxford:--
"The madness and the melody, the singing youth that went there,
The shining, unforgettable, imperial days we spent there."
But here and there, swimming rare in the vast whirlpool of Society, one
used to encounter remarkable faces. Most remarkable was the face of Lord
Beaconsfield,--past seventy, though nobody knows how much; with his
black-dyed hair in painful contrast to the corpse-like pallor of his
face; with his Blue Ribbon and diamond Star; and the piercing eyes which
still bespoke his unconquerable vitality.
Sometimes Mr. Gladstone was to be seen, with his white tie working round
toward the back of his neck, and a rose in his button-hole, looking like
a rather unwilling captive in the hands of Mrs. Gladstone, who moved
through the social crush with that queenlike dignity of bearing which
had distinguished her ever since the days when she and her sister, Lady
Lyttelton, were "the beautiful Miss Glynnes." Robert Lowe, not yet Lord
Sherbrooke, was a celebrity who might often be seen in Society,--a
noteworthy figure with his ruddy face, snow-white hair, and purblind
gaze. The first Lord Lytton--Bulwer-Lytton, the novelist--was dead
before I came to London; but his brilliant son, "Owen Meredith," in the
intervals of official employment abroad, was an interesting figure in
Society; curled and oiled and decorated, with a countenance of Semitic
type.
Lord Houghton--to me the kindest and most welcoming of hereditary
friends--had a personality and a position altogether his own. His
appearance was typically English; his manner as free and forthcoming as
a Frenchman's. Thirty years before he had been drawn by a master-hand as
Mr. Vavasour in _Tancred_, but no lapse of time could stale his infinite
variety. He was poet, essayist, politician, public orator, country
gentleman, railway-director, host, guest, ball-giver, and ball-goer, and
acted each part with equal zest and assiduity. When I first knew him he
was living in a house at the top of Arlington Street, from which Hogarth
had copied the decoration for his "Marriage a la mode." The site is now
occupied by the Ritz Hotel, and his friendly ghost still seems to haunt
the Piccadilly which he loved.
"There on warm, mid-season Sundays, Fryston's bard is wont to wend,
Whom the Ridings trust and honour, Freedom's staunch and genial
friend;
Known where shrewd hard-handed craftsmen cluster round the
northern kilns,
He whom men style Baron Houghton, but the gods call Dicky
Milnes."[27]
When first I entered Society, I caught sight of a face which instantly
arrested my attention. A very small man, both short and slim, with a
rosy complexion, protruding chin, and trenchant nose, the remains of
reddish hair, and an extremely alert and vivacious expression. The
broad Red Ribbon of a G.C.B. marked him out as in some way a
distinguished person; and I discovered that he was the Lord Chief
Justice of England,--Sir Alexander Cockburn, one of the most conspicuous
figures in the social annals of the 'thirties and 'forties, the
"Hortensius" of _Endymion_, whose "sunny face and voice of music" had
carried him out of the ruck of London dandies to the chief seat of the
British judicature, and had made him the hero of the Tichborne Trial and
the Alabama Arbitration. Yet another personage of intellectual fame who
was to be met in Society was Robert Browning, the least poetical-looking
of poets. Trim, spruce, alert, with a cheerful manner and a flow of
conversation, he might have been a Cabinet Minister, a diplomatist, or a
successful financier, almost anything except what he was. "Browning,"
growled Tennyson, "I'll predict your end. You'll die of apoplexy, in a
stiff choker, at a London dinner-party."
The streams of society and of politics have always intermingled, and, at
the period of which I am writing, Lord Hartington, afterwards, as 8th
Duke of Devonshire, leader of the Liberal Unionists, might still be seen
lounging and sprawling in doorways and corners. Mr. Arthur Balfour,
weedy and willowy, was remarked with interest as a young man of great
possessions, who had written an unintelligible book but might yet do
something in Parliament; while Lord Rosebery, though looking absurdly
youthful, was spoken of as cherishing lofty ambitions.
Later on, I may perhaps say more about private entertainment and about
those who figured in it; but now I must turn to the public sights and
shows. Matthew Arnold once wrote to his mother: "I think you will be
struck with the aspect of London in May; the wealth and brilliancy of it
is more remarkable every year. The carriages, the riders, and the
walkers in Hyde Park, on a fine evening in May or June, are alone worth
coming to London to see." This description, though written some years
before, was eminently true of Rotten Row and its adjacent drives when I
first frequented them. Frederick Locker, a minor poet of Society, asked
in some pensive stanzas on Rotten Row:
"But where is now the courtly troop
That once rode laughing by?
I miss the curls of Cantilupe,
The laugh of Lady Di."
Lord Cantilupe, of whom I always heard that he was the handsomest man
of his generation, died before I was born, and Lady Di Beauclerck had
married Baron Huddleston and ceased to ride in Rotten Row before I came
to London; so my survey of the scene was unmarred by Locker's reflective
melancholy, and I could do full justice to its charm. "Is there," asked
Lord Beaconsfield, "a more gay and graceful spectacle in this world than
Hyde Park at the end of a long summer morning in the merry month of May?
Where can we see such beautiful women, such gallant cavaliers, such fine
horses, such brilliant equipages? The scene, too, is worthy of such
agreeable accessories--the groves, the gleaming waters, and the
triumphal arches. In the distance the misty heights of Surrey and the
lovely glades of Kensington." This passage would need some re-touching
if it were to describe the Park in 1911, but in 1880 it was still a
photograph.
With regard to Public Entertainments in the more technical sense, the
period of which I am writing was highly favoured. We had Irving and Miss
Terry at the height of their powers, with all the gorgeous yet accurate
"staging" which Irving had originated. We had Lady Bancroft with that
wonderful undertone of pathos in even her brightest comedy, and her
accomplished husband, whose peculiar art blended so harmoniously with
her own. We had John Hare, the "perfect gentleman" of Stage-land, and
the Kendals with their quiet excellence in Drawing-room Drama; and the
riotous glory of Mrs. John Wood, whose performances, with Arthur Cecil,
at the Court Theatre, will always remain the most mirth-provoking
memories of my life. Midway between the Theatre and the Opera, there was
the long and lovely series of Gilbert and Sullivan, who surely must have
afforded a larger amount of absolutely innocent delight to a larger
number of people than any two artists who ever collaborated in the
public service.
As to the Opera itself, I must quote a curious passage from Lord
Beaconsfield, who figures so often in these pages, because none ever
understood London so perfectly as he.
"What will strike you most at the Opera is that you will not see a
single person you ever saw before in your life. It is strange; and it
shows what a mass of wealth and taste and refinement there is in this
wonderful metropolis of ours, quite irrespective of the circles in which
we move, and which we once thought, entirely engrossed them."
Those words describe, roughly, the seasons of 1867-1870; and they still
hold good, to a considerable extent, of my earlier years in London. The
Opera was then the resort of people who really loved music. It had
ceased to be, what it had been in the 'thirties and 'forties, a merely
fashionable resort; and its social resurrection had scarcely begun.
Personally, I have always been fonder of real life than of its dramatic
counterfeit; and a form of Public Entertainment which greatly attracted
me was that provided by the Law Courts. To follow the intricacies of a
really interesting trial; to observe the demeanour and aspect of the
witnesses; to listen to the impassioned flummery of the leading counsel;
to note its effect on the Twelve Men in the Box; and then to see the
Chinese Puzzle of conflicting evidence arranged in its damning exactness
by a skilful judge, is to me an intellectual enjoyment which can hardly
be equalled. I have never stayed in court after the jury had retired in
a capital case, for I hold it impious to stare at the mortal agony of a
fellow-creature; but the trial of Johann Most for inciting to
tyrannicide; of Gallagher and his gang of dynamiters for Treason-Felony;
and of Dr. Lampson for poisoning his brother-in-law, can never be
forgotten. Not so thrilling, but quite as interesting, were the "Jockey
Trial," in 1888, the "Baccarat Case," in 1891, and the "Trial at Bar,"
of the Raiders in 1896. But they belong to a later date than the period
covered by this chapter.
My fondness for the Law Courts might suggest that I was inclined to be a
lawyer. Not so. Only two professions ever attracted me in the slightest
degree,--Holy Orders and Parliament. But when the dividing-line of 1874
cut my life in two, it occurred to my Father that, aided by name and
connexions, I might pass a few years at the Parliamentary Bar,
pleasantly and not unprofitably, until an opportunity of entering
Parliament occurred. Partly with that end in view, and partly because it
seemed disgraceful to have no definite occupation, I became, in 1875, a
student of the Inner Temple. I duly ate my dinners; or, rather, as the
Temple dined at the unappetizing hour of six, went through a form of
eating them; and in so doing was constantly reminded of the experiences
of my favourite "Pen." The ways of Law-students had altered wonderfully
little in the lapse of forty years.
"The ancient and liberal Inn of the Inner Temple provides in its Hall,
and for a most moderate price, an excellent and wholesome dinner of
soup, meat, tarts, and port wine or sherry, for the Barristers and
Students who attend that place of refection. The parties are arranged in
messes of four, each of which quartets has its piece of beef or leg of
mutton, its sufficient apple-pie, and its bottle of wine. 'This is
boiled beef day, I believe, Sir,' said Lowton to Pen. 'Upon my word,
Sir, I'm not aware,' said Pen. 'I'm a stranger; this is my first term;
on which Lowton began to point out to him the notabilities in the Hall.