Chapter X: Part 10

Robert Waithman, Lord Mayor in 1823-24, was born of parents in humble life, in 1764, and, when a boy, was adopted by his uncle, a linendraper at Bath, and sent to a school where the boys were taught public and extemporaneous speaking. He was taken into his uncle’s business, and subsequently came to London, and opened a shop at the south end of Fleet-market. In 1794 he began to take an active part in City politics, and was next elected into the Common Council, where his speeches, resolutions, petitions, and addresses, would fill a large volume. He sat in five parliaments for the City, made a popular Sheriff and Lord Mayor; and after his death, in 1833, his friends and fellow-citizens erected to his memory a granite obelisk upon the site whereon he commenced business. A memorial tablet was also placed in St. Bride’s church, stating that “it was his happiness to see that great cause triumphant, of which he had been the intrepid advocate from youth to age.” Curiously enough, this tablet is placed in the vestibule of the church, directly opposite a similar memorial to Mr. Blades, of Ludgate-hill, who was a fine old Tory, and a stanch opponent to Waithman throughout his stormy political life: as in life, so in death the great leveller has laid them here.

Waithman made his first political speech at Founders’ Hall, “the caldron of sedition,” when he and his fellow-orators were routed by constables sent by the Lord Mayor, Sanderson, to disperse the meeting. When Sheriff, in 1821, Waithman, in endeavouring to quell a tumult at Knightsbridge, had a carbine presented at him by a lifeguardsman; and, at the funeral of Queen Caroline, a bullet passed through the Sheriff’s carriage, in the procession through Hyde-park. Latterly, the alderman grew too moderate for his Farringdon-ward friends, and he was defeated of being elected Chamberlain; he then withdrew to a farm near Reigate, and in this bucolic retirement passed away. He was an intrepid, upright man, but had been sparsely educated; and many of the Resolutions on the War with France, by which he gained political notoriety, were written by his friend and neighbour, Sir Richard Phillips.

In early life Waithman showed considerable genius for acting; and we once heard him relate that his success in the character of Macbeth led his friends to press upon him the stage as a profession; but he chose another sphere. He was uncle to John Reeve, the clever comic actor.

Alderman Kelly, Lord Mayor at the accession of her Majesty in 1837, was horn at Chevening, in Kent, and lived, when a youth, with Alexander Hogg, the publisher, in Paternoster-row, for 10_l._ a year wages. He slept under the shop-counter for the security of the premises; but was reported to his master to be “too slow” for the situation: Mr. Hogg, however, thought him “a biddable boy,” and he remained: this incident shows _upon what apparently trifling circumstances a man’s future prospects in life depend_. Kelly succeeded Mr. Hogg in the business, became alderman of the ward, and lived upon the spot sixty years: he died in his eighty-fourth year.[110] He was a man of active benevolence, and reminded one of the pious Lord Mayor, Sir Thomas Abney.

Sir Chapman Marshall, Lord Mayor 1839-40, was also of humble origin, as he narrated in 1831, when Sheriff, in replying to the toast of his health: “My Lord Mayor and gentlemen, you now see before you a humble individual who has been educated in a parochial school. I came to London in 1803, without a shilling—without a friend. I have not had the advantage of a classical education; therefore you will excuse my defects of language. But this I will say, my Lord Mayor and gentlemen, that you witness in me what may be done by the earnest application of honest industry; and I trust my example may induce others to aspire, by the same means, to the distinguished situation which I now have the honour to fill.” Here is a similar instance.

Sir John Pirie, Lord Mayor 1841-2, received his baronetcy on the christening of the Prince of Wales: at his inauguration dinner Sir John said: “I little thought, forty years ago, when I came to the City of London, a poor lad from the banks of the Tweed, that I should ever arrive at so great a distinction.”

Alderman Wire, Lord Mayor 1858-9, was born 1801, and was one of the large family of a tradesman at Colchester; yet he had the advantage of a liberal education. He came to London and articled himself to a City solicitor, and by his intelligence and industry was advanced to be partner in the business, and ultimately became the head of the firm. He was elected Alderman of his Ward (Walbrook), served Sheriff in 1853, and then Lord Mayor. Early in his year of office he was afflicted with paralysis, of which he recovered; but died on Lord-Mayor’s-day 1860! He was an active advocate of sanitary and educational movements, a liberal politician, and a man of cultivated taste, and made an able chief magistrate.

Alderman Mechi deserves a niche among these civic worthies, by the superior enterprise of his career. He is the son of a citizen of Bologna, was brought to England by his father, and, obtaining a clerkship in a house in the Newfoundland trade, he remained there eleven years. Whilst in this service, he turned the hour allowed for dinner to profitable account by selling, among his friends and acquaintance in the City, a small and inexpensive article, of which he had bought the patent. Mainly by these exertions, when in his twenty-fifth year, he commenced business as a cutler, with the success we have already intimated. He then studied how to remedy the defects of English farming by scientific processes; rose to be Sheriff and an Alderman; took an active part in the affairs of the Society of Arts, and was specially sent by her Majesty’s Government to the Industrial Exhibition at Paris in 1854.

Addison, we know, says, “the City has always been the province for satire; and the wits of King Charles’s time jested upon nothing else during his whole reign.” Nevertheless, “the Merry Monarch” dined with the citizens no fewer than nine times in their Guildhall. Here also Whittington had feasted Henry V. and his Queen, when he threw the King’s bonds for 60,000_l._ into a fire of spice-wood. But a still more memorable feast was that in 1497, when at the table of the Lord Mayor, William Purchase, Erasmus first met Sir Thomas More; whence sprung one of the most interesting friendships in literary history.

It has been well said that a dinner lubricates business; and it does more—it fosters charity and good works. The annual banquet on Lord-Mayor’s-day, in the Guildhall, is mostly to be viewed as a festival of civic state: “the loving-cup and the barons of beef carrying the mind back to medieval times and manners.”[111] The banquets at the Mansion House—one of the most palatial edifices in the kingdom—are of a like stately description; and for the more direct benefits of civic festivity we must look to the Ward dinners, and the meetings of public officers at table, when they forget the cares and heartburnings incident to every grade of office, and enjoy with the feast the higher luxury of doing good.

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Footnote 109:

Birch excelled in his art; and his _cuisine_ was unrivalled in the
City. Kitchiner immortalised his soups in print, and the Mansion-House
banquets and Court dinners of the Companies attested the alderman’s
practical skill in his business. The shop in Cornhill was established
in the reign of King George I. by Horton, who was succeeded by the
father of Alderman Birch, whose successors, in 1836, were the present
proprietors, Ring and Brymer. The premises present a curious specimen
of the decorated shop-front of the early part of the last century.

Footnote 110:

See _Life of Alderman Kelly_, by the Rev. R. C. Fell. 1856.

Footnote 111:

Cunningham.

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WORKING AUTHORS AND ARTISTS.

Godwin, the novelist and political writer, used to say that an author should have two heads,—one for his books, the other for worldly matters. And Holcroft, Godwin’s contemporary, made a similar remark on actors,—that they were so often filling other characters as to forget their own. These observations are, happily, of rare application in the cases of the present day.

We, however, remember the phrase of _Grub-street_ in occasional use, and we find “the poor devil of an author” in one of Washington Irving’s early works. But this species is now extinct; and authors build villas, give large parties, and keep carriages, like other successful professional men. Nor must it be forgotten that they do not receive their money for corrupt services, as did the hacks of former days; and a Grub-street Author would be now almost as great a rarity as a living gorilla.

We remember a specimen of “author and rags—author and dirt—author and gin,”—of forty years since. He lived in a garret,[112] in an old house at the top of Red Lion-court, Fleet-street: in one corner of the room, upon the floor, lay the bed; near the fire-place was an old chair; a box placed endwise served for a table; and these, with an almost spoutless coffee-pot, a maimed cup and saucer, a bottle for a candlestick, and an old chest, nearly completed the contents of the miserable apartment. The inmate was an old man turned of seventy, with shrunk shanks and loosely-fitting coat and breeches, and the conventional author’s-nightcap; his scratchwig being placed upon one of the uprights of his chair, which served as a block. Every portion of the room bore evidence of the _dirt;_ and the atmosphere was redolent of _gin_. He wrote a large black, sermon-like hand, upon paper of all sorts and sizes: his matter was as antiquated as his manner; his very talk was scholastic pedantry, and the room was strewed with scraps and shreds of his learning: but he lived within the classic shade of Valpy’s printing-office. With all his labour and learning, whatever he wrote was not half so serviceable or so interesting as a short-hand report of an occurrence of yesterday.

Another humble practitioner of authorship had been driven to it by failure in business; and an undecided Chancery-suit had made him a pitiable, puling fellow; far less cheerful than the evergreen “Tom Hill,” who, failing as a drysalter at unlettered Queenhithe, betook himself to the editorship of the _Monthly Mirror_, but had to part with a collection of book-rarities (chiefly English poetry), which he began to make in early life as some relief to drysalting, which was any thing but Attic work!

The life of this “merry bachelor” exemplified one venerable proverb, and disproved another: born in 1760, and dying in 1840, he was “as old as the Hills,” having led a long life and a merry one. He was a remarkably early riser; but that which contributed more to his longevity was his gaiety of heart, and his being merry and wise: he had his cares and crosses, but when nearly ruined by an adverse speculation in indigo, he retired with the remains of his property to chambers in the Adelphi. His books were valued at 6000_l._ He had been a Mecænas in his time, and had patronised two friendless poets, Bloomfield and Kirke White. He was the Hull of his friend Theodore Hook’s _Gilbert Gurney_, and suggested some of the eccentricities of Paul Pry.

Authorship and Trade are thought to be “wide as the poles asunder,” though sometimes attempered by circumstances. David Booth, who wrote the _Analytical Dictionary_ and a critical work on English Composition, was originally a brewer, then a man of letters; and late in life he realised much money by imparting to brewers the secret of preventing Acidification in Brewing.

Among the strange successes of authorship may be mentioned the popularity of works published anonymously, which their authors have not cared to claim. The accomplished Dr. William Maginn wrote the tragic story of the Polstead murder, in 1827, in the form of a novel, entitled the _Red Barn_, the sale of which extended to many thousand copies; yet no one suspected it to be the work of an elegant scholar, critic, and poet.

Literary Fame, Lord Byron affected to despise, in the following entry in his entertaining _Ravenna Journal_, January 4th, 1821:

I was out of spirits—read the papers—thought what _fame_ was, on
reading in a case of murder that Mr. Wych, grocer, at Tunbridge,
sold some bacon, flour, cheese, and, it is believed, some plums, to
some gipsy woman accused. He had on his counter (I quote faithfully)
a book, the _Life of Pamela_, which he was _tearing_ for _waste_
paper, &c. &c. In the cheese was found, &c., and a _leaf_ of _Pamela
wrapped round the bacon_. What would Richardson, the vainest and
luckiest of _living_ authors (_i. e._ while alive)—he who, with
Aaron Hill, used to prophesy and chuckle over the presumed fall of
Fielding (the prose Homer of human nature), and of Pope (the most
beautiful of poets)—what would he have said could he have traced his
pages from their place on the French prince’s toilets (see Boswell’s
_Johnson_) to the grocer’s counter and the gipsy murderess’s bacon?
What would he have said—what can any body say—save what Solomon said
long before us. After all, it is but passing from one counter to
another—from the bookseller’s to the other tradesman’s, grocer or
pastry-cook. For my part, I have met with most poetry upon trunks;
so that I am apt to consider the trunk-maker as the sexton of
authorship.

The Letters of Southey afford some of the most truthful experiences of an author to be found in any record of human life and character. At the age of thirty, when struggling with the world, he wrote thus reverentially:

No man was ever more contented with his lot than I am; for few have
ever had more enjoyments, and none had ever better or worthier
hopes. Life, therefore, is sufficiently dear to me, and long life
desirable, that I may accomplish all which I design. But yet, I
could be well content that the next century were over, and my part
fairly at an end, having been gone well through. Just as at school
one wished the school-days over, though we were happy enough there,
because we expected more happiness and more liberty when we were to
be our own masters, might lie as much later in the morning as we
pleased, have no bounds, and do no exercise,—just so do I wish that
my exercises were over, that that ugly chrysalis state were passed
through to which we must all come, and that I had fairly burst my
shell, and got into the new world, with wings upon my shoulders, or
some inherent power like the wishing-cap, which should annihilate
all the inconveniences of space.

How lifelike also is the following passage upon Southey’s meeting his friend and schoolfellow, Combe! “It is about six years since I saw him. Both he and I have grown into men with as little change as possible in either; and yet, after a few minutes, there was a dead weight upon me which was not to be shaken off. We met with the heartiness of old and thorough familiarity,—something like a family feeling,—but it was necessary to go back to school; for the moment we ceased to be schoolboys there was nothing in common between us. We had no common acquaintance or pursuit; and I feel that of all things in the world there is nothing more mortifying than to meet an old friend from whom you have had no weaning, and to find your friendship cut through at the root.”

The life of John Britton, the topographer and antiquary, presents a remarkable instance of a man born to trouble, yet so successfully struggling with difficulties of all kinds, as to attain a respectable position in life, and to be honoured in his declining years with a public testimonial of esteem. He was born at Kington, Wilts, in 1771: his father, through failure in trade, became insane; the boy learnt his letters from a hornbook, but received little further schooling. He came to London, and, until manhood, worked hard in wine-cellars; but his health breaking down in this employment, he engaged himself at fifteen shillings a week as clerk to an attorney. He had grown fond of reading, but could only get snatches at book-stalls from books, having no money to buy them. However, he at length succeeded in getting a few, read early and late, and made some attempts at authorship, which led him to an enterprise that may be said to have indicated his future fortune. He projected publishing a description of his native county, Wiltshire, and with this view waited upon the Marquis of Lansdowne, at Bowood, to solicit his patronage.[113] He had neither card nor prospectus; but he told his early struggles and his love of reading so artlessly, that the kind-hearted nobleman directed his librarian to provide young Britton with books and maps; to allot him a bedroom; and depute a person to show him over the house and pleasure-grounds. He remained at Bowood four days, much of which time he passed in the well-stored library. All this kindness[114] Mr. Britton gratefully acknowledges in his Autobiography, adding that, had he been coldly repulsed by Lord Lansdowne, “it is probable that the _Beauties of Wiltshire_ would never have appeared before the public, nor its author become known in literature.” He wrote, edited, and published nearly one hundred works, and in this way laboured for some sixty years. This success we attribute to his great energy of character, nurtured by the kindness with which he was received at Bowood; and aided in after-life by qualities which we rarely see associated in the same individual. Mr. Britton was not only industrious and persevering, but cheerful under defeat; his evenness of temper was very remarkable; yet he was not cold in his attachments. He tells us that from his boyhood he was ambitious to be in the company of his elders and superiors in knowledge: we can testify that he was well-behaved, though not obsequious; well-ordered and accurate in business and money-matters; always living within his means, from youth, when he read books in bed to save the expense of fire,—to his green old age of comfort in his quiet and elegant home in Burton-street: “years had not blunted his sympathies, but to the last his heart overflowed with genial kindness and benevolence;” and he passed away peacefully and resignedly in his eighty-sixth year, on New-Year’s-day, 1857. It will thus be seen that John Britton possessed qualities which, if less striking than his industry, were equally essential to his success in life, although they were but fully known to his more immediate circle of friends and acquaintance.

The career of Mr. Britton’s friend and neighbour, Francis Baily, the astronomer, presents a memorable instance of a well-spent life, although commenced with a mistake. He was apprenticed to a London tradesman; but disliking the business, at the expiration of the term, his taste for science having already been developed, at the age of one-and-twenty he made a very remarkable tour in the unsettled parts of North America. Returning to England, he became a member of the Stock Exchange, wrote some important papers upon subjects connected with commercial affairs, and applied himself to astronomy in his leisure-hours. In 1820 he took a conspicuous part in the foundation of the Astronomical Society. After realising a competent fortune, he retired from business, and devoted himself to his favourite pursuits. He died in 1844, in his seventieth year, after performing a vast amount of valuable work, of which his labours in the remodelling of the _Nautical Almanac;_ in the fixation of the standard of length, involving more than 1200 hours’ watching the oscillations of the pendulum; in the determination of the density of the earth; and in the revision of catalogues of the stars,—were only a part. He passed away with these memorable words almost upon his lips: “My life is nearly closed. I leave life with the same tranquillity and equanimity which I have generally felt and acted on in my personal intercourse with friends and strangers. I have been blessed with uninterrupted health. In short, I have had more than my share of terrestrial happiness, and leave it, as fulfilling an inscrutable law of animal nature, with thankfulness and resignation.” “Among Mr. Baily’s friends,” says Prof. de Morgan, “there is surely not one who will venture to say positively that he ever knew _a better or a happier man_.”

The rise of Chantrey, the sculptor, from peasant-life was nobly earned. He was born in the village of Norton, Derbyshire, in 1781, of parents in humble circumstances. When a boy carrying milk to the next town, he would stop to form grotesque figures of the yellow clay; and he moulded his mother’s butter on churning-days into various forms. From his fondness for drawing and modelling he was apprenticed to a carver and gilder at Sheffield. Thence he came to London, and began to work at carving in stone, not having received a single lesson from any sculptor; and he laboured for eight years without earning 5_l._ in his profession. At length, a single bust brought him 12,000_l._-worth of commissions, and he rose to be the first sculptor of his day. He died in 1841, and was buried in a tomb which he had built for himself in the churchyard of his native village, where a granite obelisk has been raised to his memory. He was ever mindful of his lowly origin; for when he had become famous, and had received knighthood, at a party given by his patron, Mr. Thomas Hope, Sir Francis Chantrey was observed to notice a piece of carved furniture; on being asked the reason, he replied, “This was my first work.”

It is scarcely possible to name Chantrey without being reminded of his friend, “honest Allan Cunningham,” who, born in the county of Dumfries, in 1784, received but scanty education, and at the age of eleven was apprenticed to a mason. In the intervals of his laborious occupation, “he sought knowledge wherever he could obtain it,” and drew his earliest poetic inspiration from the dear country of Burns—the wilds of Nithsdale, and the lone banks of the Solway. Here he earned his daily bread as a common stonemason until his twenty-sixth year, when he came to London, wavering between labour and literature. He chose the latter, in reporting for the newspapers; but, soon tired of its perplexities, he resumed his first calling, and by a fortunate opportunity, to which his own excellent character recommended him, he became foreman of the works of Chantrey, in which honourable employment he remained until the sculptor’s death, in 1841. In his intervals of business, by untiring industry, Allan Cunningham produced a succession of works noteworthy in the poetry and general literature of his day. His first poetry was printed in 1807: he also wrote stirring romances; and in collecting Tradition Tales of the Scottish Peasantry, by the light of an evening fire, he sweetened many an hour of remission from daily labour. Later in life he became a critic of the Fine Arts, and wrote with amiable feeling, honesty, and candour, and mature and liberal taste: it was well observed of him in his lifetime: “He needs no testimony either to his intellectual accomplishments or his moral worth; nor, thanks to his own virtuous diligence, does he need any patronage.” His genius and artistic judgment have been inherited by his third son, Peter Cunningham, the well-known critic, topographer, and antiquary.[115]

The greatest author of the present century, whether we regard the beneficial influence of his writings, or its extent, is Sir Walter Scott. We have already spoken of his diligence and economy of time; his characteristics as an author have been ably sketched as follows:

With far less classical learning, fewer images derived from
travelling, inferior information on many historical subjects, and a
mind of a less impassioned and energetic cast than other writers of
his time, Sir Walter is far more deeply read in that book which is
ever the same—the human heart. This is his unequalled excellence:
there he stands, without a rival since the days of Shakspeare. It is
to this cause that his astonishing success has been owing. We feel
in his characters that it is not romance, but real life, which is
represented. Every word that is said, especially in the Scotch
novels, is nature itself. Homer, Cervantes, Shakspeare, and Scott,
alone have penetrated to the deep substratum of character, which,
however disguised by the varieties of climate and government, is at
bottom every where the same; and thence they have found a responsive
echo in every human heart. Every man who reads these admirable
works, from the North Cape to Cape Horn, feels that what the
characters they contain are made to say, is just what would have
occurred to themselves, or what they have heard said by others as
long as they lived. Nor is it only in the delineation of character,
and the knowledge of human nature, that the Scottish novelist, like
his great predecessors, is but for them without a rival. Powerful in
the pathetic, admirable in dialogue, unmatched in description, his
writings captivate the mind as much by the varied excellences which
they exhibit, as by the powerful interest which they maintain. He
has carried romance out of the region of imagination and sensibility
into the walks of actual life.[116]

Isaac Disraeli, who died in 1848, at the age of eighty-two, was “a complete literary character, a man who really passed his life in his library. Even marriage produced no change in these habits: he rose to enter the chamber where he lived alone with his books, and at night his lamp was ever lit within the same walls.” His father destined him for business; but this he opposed so strongly as to compose a long poem against commerce, which he attempted to get published. In spite of all his father could say or do, young Disraeli determined to become a literary man. His first efforts were in poetry and romance; but he soon found out that his true destiny was literary history; and in 1790 he published anonymously _Curiosities of Literature_, the success of which led him to devote the remainder of his long life to literary and historical researches, which he prosecuted partly in the British Museum, where he was a constant visitor when the _readers_ were not more than half a dozen daily: he also worked in his own library, which was very extensive. His _Curiosities_ reached eleven editions; and in acknowledgment of his _Life and Reign of Charles I._ he was made D.C., &c. by the University of Oxford. He is thus personally described by his gifted son:

He was fair, with a Bourbon nose, and brown eyes of extraordinary
beauty and lustre. He wore a small black-velvet cap, but his white
hair latterly touched his shoulders in curls almost as flowing as in
his boyhood. His extremities were delicate and well formed, and his
leg, at his last hour, as shapely as in his youth, which showed the
vigour of his frame. Latterly he had become corpulent. He did not
excel in conversation, though in his domestic circle he was
garrulous. Every thing interested him; and blind, and eighty-two, he
was still as susceptible as a child. One of his last acts was to
compose some verses of gay gratitude to his daughter-in-law, who was
his London correspondent, and to whose lively pen his last years
were indebted for constant amusement. He had by nature a singular
volatility, which never deserted him. His feelings, though always
amiable, were not painfully deep, and amid joy or sorrow the
philosophic vein was ever evident. He more resembled Goldsmith than
any man that I can compare him to: in his conversation his apparent
confusion of ideas ending with some felicitous phrase of genius, his
_naïveté_, his simplicity not untouched with a dash of sarcasm
affecting innocence—one was often reminded of the gifted and
interesting friend of Burke and Johnson. There was, however, one
trait in which my father did not resemble Goldsmith: he had no
vanity. Indeed, one of his few infirmities was rather a deficiency
of self-esteem.

Mr. Disraeli had the pride and happiness to see the writer of the above, Benjamin Disraeli, not only achieve high distinction in literature, but become a minister of the Crown. We remember him in his twenty-fifth year. “Who is that gentleman with a profusion of hair, whom I so often see here?” was our inquiry of a publisher in Oxford-street. “That is young Disraeli,” was the publisher’s reply; “and he would be glad to execute any literary work for a guinea or two.” He had already produced a piece of piquant satire, an _Account of the Great World_,[117] with a Vocabulary; and shortly after there was announced for publication a periodical to be called _The Star-Chamber_, to have been edited by Mr. Disraeli. He published his first novel, _Vivian Grey_, in 1825; _Coningsby_, a work of fiction and political history, he wrote chiefly at Deepdene, in Surrey, the seat of his friend, Mr. H. T. Hope. Mr. Disraeli entered Parliament in 1837: he succeeded Lord George Bentinck as the Conservative leader; was Chancellor of the Exchequer under Lord Derby’s administrations of 1852 and 1858-9; thus exemplifying that the highest political honours are attainable in this country by intellectual qualification for public life.

Lord Macaulay, the brilliant essayist, historian, and orator, exemplifies in his successful career how genius may be most profitably nurtured by systematic education. Of quick perception and great power of memory, when a boy he would tell long stories from the _Arabian Nights_ and Scott’s novels; but the familiar books of his home were the Bible, _Pilgrim’s Progress_, and a few Cameronian divines; and he was fond of Scripture phraseology throughout his writings. He appears to have been a great favourite of Hannah More, who thought him a little prodigy of acquisition, and wrote of him, when on a visit to her in his boyhood:

The quantity of reading that Tom has poured in, and the quantity of
writing he has poured out, is astonishing. We have poetry for
breakfast, dinner, and supper. He recited all _Palestine_ (Bishop
Heber’s poem), while we breakfasted, to our pious friend, Mr.
Whalley, at my desire, and did it incomparably.... I sometimes fancy
I observe a daily progress in the growth of his mental powers. His
fine promise of mind, too, expands more and more; and, what is
extraordinary, he has as much accuracy in his expression as spirit
and vivacity in his imagination. I like, too, that he takes a lively
interest in all passing events, and that _the child_ is still
preserved; I like to see him as boyish as he is studious, and that
he is as much amused with making a pat of butter as a poem. Though
loquacious, he is very docile; and I don’t remember a single
instance in which he has persisted in doing any thing when he saw we
did not approve it. Several men of sense and learning have been
struck with the union of gaiety and rationality in his conversation.

More remarkable was the prevoyance of Macaulay’s power as a writer, which Hannah More almost literally predicted: he cherished a warm recollection of his obligations to her, and the influence she had in directing his reading. He received his peerage in honour of his valuable services to literature: he will long be remembered by his grasp of mind, descriptive picturesqueness, strong feeling and vivid fancy, life-like portraiture, and marvellous scenic skill. In his mastery of the art of writing he was unrivalled.

It may take the reader by surprise to be told that, astounding as the career of Lord Brougham has been, the rise of this distinguished man to the highest honour of the realm appears to have been predicted thirty years before its attainment. At the Social Science dinner at the Crystal Palace, Sydenham, on June 14th, 1862, at which Lord Brougham presided, Mr. J. W. Napier, Ex-Chancellor of Ireland, related that he remembered, some years previously, meeting an old and respected lady in the north of England, who was present at a party when the first writers in the _Edinburgh Review_, including Henry Brougham, dined together at Edinburgh, after the publication of the Second Number of the Review (in 1802). On that occasion, the lady’s husband, Mr. Fletcher, remarked that the writer of a certain paper in the Review, of which he knew not the author, was fit to be any thing. Mr. Brougham hearing this, observed, “What! do you think he is fit to be Lord Chancellor?” The reply was, “Yes; and I tell you more: he will be Lord Chancellor;” and the old lady had the happiness to live thirty years after this, and to see her friend Lord Chancellor of England. Lord Brougham well remembered old Mrs. Fletcher, and corroborated the accuracy of Mr. Napier’s anecdote. Mr. Napier then proposed, in an affectionate manner, the health of Lord Brougham, whose answer was, as he said, but a repetition of words he had spoken thirty years ago elsewhere. But on the present occasion they were perhaps even more appropriate, and in themselves singularly beautiful: “When I cease from my labours, the cause of freedom, peace, and progress will lose a friend, and no man living will lose an enemy.” The noble lord was much affected, and it is needless to tell of the applause which followed the sentiment.

Henry Brougham was born in Edinburgh in 1779: his father was no extraordinary man, but his mother is described as a woman of talent and delightful character. The son was educated in Edinburgh, which, in 1857, he declared in public he looked upon as a very great benefit conferred on him by Providence. He was _dux_ of the Rector’s class at the Edinburgh University in 1791; and he was preëminent in mathematics and natural philosophy, in law, metaphysics, and political science. When not more than seventeen, he contributed to the Royal Society a paper on the Inflection and Reflection of Light; and next, a paper of Porisms in the Higher Geometry. He chose the Scottish Bar as his profession; and, with Horner, Jeffrey, and other Scottish Whigs, joined the renowned Speculative Society for the sake of extemporaneous debate. He for some time edited the _Edinburgh Review_, and was for five-and-twenty years the most industrious and versatile of the contributors. In 1808 he was called to the Bar at Lincoln’s Inn, and began to practise as an English barrister. In 1810 he entered Parliament, and soon distinguished himself on all the great questions of the day. His application to law, literature, and science was alike intense. Sir Samuel Romilly said, he seemed to have time for every thing; and Sydney Smith once recommended him to confine himself to only the transaction of so much business as three strong men could get through. Hazlitt, in a portrait-sketch taken about 1825, says:

Mr. Brougham writes almost as well as he speaks. In the midst of an
election contest he comes out to address the populace, and goes back
to his study to finish an article for the _Edinburgh Review_,
sometimes indeed wedging three or four articles in the shape of
_rifacimenti_ of his own pamphlets or speeches in Parliament in a
single Number. Such indeed is the activity of his mind, that it
appears to require neither repose nor any other stimulus than a
delight in its own exercise. He can turn his hand to any thing, but
he cannot be idle. He is, in fact, a striking instance of the
versatility and strength of the human mind, and also, in one sense,
of the length of human life: _if we make good use of our time, there
is room enough to crowd almost every art and science into it_.

It is now nearly forty years since this was written, and it is almost as applicable as ever. In 1828, in a debate in Parliament, Mr. Brougham used the memorable words, “The schoolmaster is abroad.” He next, in a speech of six hours’ delivery, moved for an inquiry into the state of the Law; the Repeal of the Test and Corporation Acts, Catholic Emancipation, and the Charities Commission, were next advocated by him; and then, Parliamentary Reform, the Abolition of Punishment of Forgery by Death, Local Courts, and the Abolition of Slavery. In 1830 he was raised to the high office of Lord Chancellor. Mechanics’ Institutes, and the foundation of University College, and the Diffusion of Useful Knowledge, were next advocated by Lord Brougham. His Chancellorship was brief. But he continued to labour for the next thirty years in Law Reform and Social Science, and in aiding the progress of liberal opinion.

The universal energy which has marked Lord Brougham was thus ably summed up, on the publication of his volume of scientific Tracts, in 1860:

If the fact of his scientific researches were less well known, there
would be something quite startling in the announcement of a volume
of mathematical tracts from the hand of a man who has had half a
score of other occupations, each sufficient to engross the whole
mind of an ordinarily constituted mortal. To be great as a circuit
leader, all-powerful as a popular chief, triumphant as a reforming
Chancellor—to be the prominent figure in the Anti-Slavery movement,
the promoter of education, the concocter of law-reforming statutes
almost without number—the statesman of all parties, the citizen of
two countries, and the orator of a thousand platforms—might have
sufficed most ambitions, without the renown of literary success and
scientific effort. But, not content with the public achievements of
his life, or the obscure glory of anonymous literature, Lord
Brougham has striven to reproduce in an English dress the eloquence
of Demosthenes, and to correct the real or supposed errors of no
less a philosopher than Newton himself.... Philosophical theories
may survive Lord Brougham’s attacks, and _savans_ may forget his
speculations; but generations of Englishmen will long remember the
career of a man who has exhibited in a thousand forms an amount of
mental vitality which it would be difficult to parallel in the
history of the most restless and eager aspirants to the glory of
universal genius.

It is impossible to reflect upon the politico-legal position of Lord Brougham when he sat upon the woolsack, without remembering that Brougham and Denman, at the trial of Queen Caroline, attacked with virulence, then generally condemned, the Prince from whose hands, as sovereign, ten years later, both received high legal office. This change in feeling is alike creditable to all.

One of the most remarkable men of our day was Professor Wilson, the Editor of _Blackwood’s Magazine_, in the pages of which he is thus characterised, from his bust in the Crystal Palace at Sydenham: he was born at Paisley, in Scotland, in 1785; and died at Edinburgh, in 1854.

The head tells the story of the whole man. It is the head of an
athlete, but an athlete possessing a soul, the grace of Apollo
sitting on the thews of Hercules. Such a man, you would say at once,
was none of your sedentary _litterati_, who appear to have the cramp
in their limbs whenever they move abroad, but one who could, like
the Greeks of old, ride, run, wrestle, box, dive, or throw the
discus at need, or put the stone like Ulysses himself, or one who
could do the same things, and in addition to them steer, pull an
oar, shoot, fish, follow hounds, or make a good score at cricket,
like a true Briton of modern times, in spite of all our physical and
intellectual degeneracy, about which, indeed, we have a right to be
sceptical, when we know that such an unmistakable man as Wilson was
living in the reign of Queen Victoria. It is an honour to Scotland
that she produced such a critic on Homer, only second to that which
is hers in having produced that poet who, of all the moderns, has
composed poetry the most Homeric—even Walter Scott.

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Footnote 112:

Such a room as Mr. Egg has painted in his masterly picture of “The
Death of Chatterton;” and, curiously enough, the house above referred
to was nearly upon the same spot.

Footnote 113:

This was William, first Marquis of Lansdowne, who, as Earl of
Shelburne, was Prime Minister in 1782; the date of Mr. Britton’s visit
was 1798. By the Marquis’s kindness, he tells us that he left Bowood
for Chippenham loaded with books, and a copy of a large Survey of
Wiltshire, in eighteen folio sheets. The Marquis was a liberal patron
of Art, and commenced at Bowood and Shelburne House the formation of a
gallery of modern art; and his fine taste was amply inherited by his
son Henry, the third Marquis, who died at Bowood in January 1863.

Footnote 114:

We remember a similarly gratifying incident in early life. We had
scarcely reached twenty-one, when we had occasion to wait upon Mr.
Chamberlain Clark, to request of him some particulars of the house of
Cowley the poet, at Chertsey, which was then in Mr. Clark’s tenancy.
The bland old Chamberlain inquired if we had ever written a book; to
which the reply was, that we had a volume of topography in the press.
“Then please to put down my name for a copy,” kindly rejoined the
Chamberlain, although the work was merely of local interest. What
kindness in one who was the chastener of refractory apprentices and
the terror of evil-doers!

Footnote 115:

Mr. P. Cunningham, in the _Builder_, Feb. 14, 1863, writes as follows:

“Chantrey died so suddenly that an inquest was held upon his body. I
was present. It was a solemn sight, not to be effaced whilst
unimpaired remembrance reigns. In an exquisite little gallery built
for him by Sir John Soane, lay (seen by many lighted tapers) the
breathless body and torpid hand that had given life to helpless clay
and shapeless stone. Around the body in its windingsheet were ranged
some of the finest casts from the antique that money and taste could
procure. Calm and solemn was the scene. My father kissed the cold
forehead of his friend with these words: “My dear master.” I looked
into his eyes as we left together; they were full of tears.”—_New
Materials for the Life of Chantrey._

Footnote 116:

Sir Archibald Alison.

Footnote 117:

Published by Ridgway, Piccadilly, 1829.

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WEAR AND TEAR OF PUBLIC LIFE.

The sudden death of Lord George Bentinck, the political leader, in 1848, in his forty-seventh year, showed how the most ardent intellect and the noblest frame are alike broken down by the turmoil of public life. After a late debate in Parliament he would travel by rail many miles to hunt, and return in time to attend the sittings of the House in the evening; throwing a wrapper over his scarlet hunting-coat, and exercising indefatigably the office of “whipper-in” in the House, and subsequently leader of “the country party.” He had during these political avocations continued his attention to racing and race-horses, declaring on one occasion that the winning of the Derby was the “blue-ribbon” of the turf. In August 1848 he retired to Welbeck Abbey for relaxation; he, however, attended Doncaster races four times in one week, at which a horse of his own breeding won the St. Leger stakes, to his great gratification. On September 21st he left Welbeck on foot, soon after four o’clock in the afternoon, to visit Earl Manvers, at Thoresby-park, and sent his servants to meet him with a carriage at an appointed place. He appeared not; the servants became alarmed; search was made for him; but it was not till eleven at night that he was found quite dead, lying on a footpath in a meadow about a mile from the house: his death having been caused by spasms of the heart. In Cavendish-square has been set up a colossal statue of this remarkable man: the pedestal simply bears his name; his political and sporting celebrity has “waned with time; had the awful circumstances of his death been inscribed upon the memorial, it would have been a constant monition—a “siste viator”—of far greater value than a political monument.

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Home Traits.

LOVE OF HOME.

ENGLAND is, above all other countries, favourable to individual industry, and that energy of character which, developed and well directed, succeeds in the world. Still, failure neither is nor ever has been rare; and private munificence and public benevolence have provided “many happy ports and havens” for those whose evening of life is clouded with storm. We have visited not a few of these sacred places—these palaces of philanthropy; we have gone about their buildings—their noble halls glowing with comfort, and their tables beaming with good cheer. We have for a brief hour enjoyed the quiet of these retreats, and thought how their decayed brethren, jaded with adversity and buffeted with misfortune, may find here that consolation and repose which the outside world has denied them. These may be found in the fellowship of the dining-hall, the social walk in the garden, and the assembling for worship in the chapel. All this, however, is but the bright side of this mode of life; and when the time arrives for the brethren to retire, each to his solitary chamber, then comes the pang of isolation from the world—even the ungrateful world! And, perchance, they look from the casement upon the larger foundation-buildings, and are by them still more forcibly reminded that this noble place is _not their own_—in short, that it presents not the joys nor the delights which are conveyed to the sensitive heart by that brief but touching word—HOME!

It is scarcely possible to overrate the importance of this love of home in our scheme of earthly happiness. Southey has well observed: “Whatever strengthens our local attachments is favourable both to individual and national character. Our home, our birthplace, our native land; think, for a while, what the virtues are which rise out of the feelings connected with these words.”

Then, how is man, in the loneliness we have referred to, parted from the sweet solace he most needs in his hour of woe! Such consolation has been thus picturesquely bodied forth by one of our happiest writers on domestic life: “As the vine, which has long twined its graceful foliage about the oak, and been lifted by it into sunshine, will, when the hardy plant is rifted by the thunderbolt, cling round it with its caressing tendrils, and bind up its shattered boughs; so it is beautifully ordered by Providence, that woman, who is the mere dependent and ornament of man in his happier hours, should be his stay and solace when smitten with sudden calamity; winding herself into the rugged recesses of his nature, tenderly supporting the drooping head, and binding up the broken heart.”[118]

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Footnote 118:

Washington Irving.

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FAMILY PORTRAITS.

We remember reading a humorous sketch entitled, “The late Mr. Smith,” whose portrait after his death was removed by his widow to the lumber-room, lest it should be displeasing to her second husband: occasionally the children would bring out the portrait, and with a rusty foil run “the ugly old man” through the eyes.

Here we have one of the reasons why family portraits are so often thrust aside; but there are several others. The Rev. Mr. Eagles relates the following, in _Blackwood’s Magazine:_ “I remember, when a boy, walking with an elderly gentleman, and passing a broker’s stall, there was the portrait of a fine florid gentleman in regimentals. He stopped to look at it—he might have bought it for a few shillings. After he had gone away—‘That,’ said he, ‘is the portrait of my wife’s great uncle—member for the county, and colonel of militia: you see how he is degraded to these steps.’ ‘Why do you not rescue him?’ said I. ‘Because he left me nothing,’ was the reply. A relative of mine, an old lady, hit upon a happy device; the example is worth following. Her husband was the last of his race, for she had no children. She took all the family portraits out of their frames, rolled up all the pictures, and put them in the coffin with the deceased.”

Sheridan has turned an incident of this class to admirable account, in his _School for Scandal_, in the reservation of Uncle Oliver’s portrait from sale.

Sometimes a good picture has unpleasant associations. “That is an excellent portrait of Ireland, the Shakspeare forger,” said a collector to a picture-dealer in Wardour-street; whose ready reply was, “Will you buy it, sir? it is but half a guinea.” “No,” answered the other; “it would seem either that I admired Ireland’s dishonest ingenuity, or that I had been his friend.”

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HOW TO KEEP FRIENDS.

When Goldsmith once talked to Johnson of the difficulty of living on very intimate terms with any one with whom you differed on an important topic, Johnson replied: “Why, sir, _you must shun the subject as to which you disagree_. For instance, I can live very well with Burke; I love his knowledge, his genius, his diffusion, and effulgence of conversation; but I would not talk to him of the Rockingham party.”

Mr. Helps, in his admirable work, _Friends in Council_, well observes: “A rule for living happily with others is to avoid having stock subjects of disputation. It mostly happens, when people live much together, that they come to have certain set topics, around which, from frequent dispute, there is such a growth of angry words, mortified vanity, and the like, that the original difference becomes a standing subject for quarrel; and there is a tendency in all minor disputes to drift down to it. Again: if people wish to live well together, they must not hold too much to logic, and supposing every thing is to be settled by sufficient reason. Dr. Johnson saw this clearly with regard to married people when he said, ‘Wretched would be the pair, above all names of wretchedness, who should be doomed to adjust by reason every morning all the minute detail of a domestic day.’ But the application should be much more general than he made it. There is no time for such reasonings, and nothing that is worth them. And when we recollect how two lawyers, or two politicians, can go on contending, and that there is no end of one-sided reasoning on any subject, we shall not be sure that such contention is the best mode for arriving at truth. But certainly it is not the way to arrive at good temper.”

The most gifted men are least addicted to depreciate either friends or foes. Dr. Johnson, Mr. Burke, and Mr. Fox were always more inclined to overrate them; your shrewd, sly, evil-speaking fellow is generally a shallow person; and frequently he is as venomous, as false when he flatters as when he reviles. He seldom praises John but to vex Thomas.

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SMALL COURTESIES.

How much politeness and winning of the affections exist in small courtesies, is well exemplified in the following anecdote related by a lady of a gentleman who had been the politest man of his generation. On returning once from school for the holidays, she had been put under his charge for the journey. They stopped for the night at a Cornish inn. Supper was ordered, and soon there appeared a dainty dish of woodcocks. Her cavalier led her to the board with the air of a Grandison, and then proceeded to place all the legs of the birds on her plate. At first, with her school-girl prejudices in favour of wings and in disfavour of legs and drumsticks, she felt rather angered at having these (as she supposed) uninviting and least delicate parts imposed upon her; but in after years, when gastronomic light had beamed on her, and the experience of many suppers brought true appreciation, she did full justice to the memory of the man who could sacrifice such _morceaux_ as woodcocks’ thighs to the crude appetite of a girl, and who could thus show his innate deference for womanhood even in such budding form.

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LASTING FRIENDSHIPS.

The man who ill-naturedly said that the church would not hold his acquaintance, but the pulpit would contain his friends, cannot be congratulated upon the disproportion.

“Who is your friend?” is an every-day question, probably never better answered than in the following forcible and eloquent rebuke by a modern writer: