Macready—Thomas Carlyle—Leigh Hunt—Richard Cobden—John Bright—Charles Pelham Villiers—George Wilson—W. J. Fox—Sir John Bowring—Colonel Perronet Thompson—Mrs. Cobden—Thomas Hood—Julia Kavanagh—Mrs. Loudon—Rev. Edward Tagart—Edwin and Charles Landseer—Martin—Miss Martin—Mr. and Mrs. Joseph Bonomi—Owen Jones—Noel Humphreys—Mr. and Mrs. Milner Gibson—Louis Blanc—William Jerdan—Ralph Waldo Emerson—Mrs. Gaskell—Charles Dickens—John Forster—Mark Lemon—John Leech—Augustus Egg—George Cruikshank—Frank Stone—F. W. Topham—George H. Lewes—Charles Knight—J. Payne Collier—Sheriff Gordon—Robert Chambers—Lord and Lady Ellesmere.
One of the proudest privileges among the many pleasures we received
from Macready was that of writing our name on the free
list at the London theatres where he was manager; and we shall not readily forget the exultant
sense of distinction with which we wrote for the first time in the huge tome,—that magic
book,—which conferred the right of entry upon those who might put their signatures there.
Once, as we stood ready to pen the open-sesame words, we heard a deep voice near to us, and saw
a lofty figure with a face that had something of undoubted authority and superiority in its
marked lines. Voice, figure, face, at once impressed us so potently that we instinctively drew
back and yielded him precedence;
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Not very long after that we met him on a superlatively interesting occasion.
Leigh Hunt had invited a few friends with ourselves to
hear him read his newly-written play of “A
Legend of Florence;” and Thomas Carlyle
was among these friends. The hushed room, its general low light,—for a single well-shaded
lamp close by the reader formed the sole point of illumination,—the scarcely-seen faces
around, all bent in fixed attention upon the perusing figure; the breathless presence of so
many eager listeners, all remains indelibly stationed in the memory, never to be effaced or
weakened. It was not surpassed in interest,—though strangely contrasted in dazzle and
tumult,—when the play was brought out at Covent Garden Theatre, and Leigh
Hunt was called on to the stage at its conclusion to receive the homage of a
public who had long known him through his delightful writings, and now caught at this
opportunity to let him feel and see and hear their admiration of those past works as well as of
his present poetical play. A touching sight was it to see that honoured head, grown grey in the
cause of letters and in the ceaseless promotion of all that is tasteful and graceful, good and
noble, a head that we remembered jet black with thick, clustered hair, and held proudly up with
youthful poet thought and patriot ardour, now silvered and gently inclined to receive the
applause thus for the first time publicly and face to
| THOMAS CARLYLE. | 87 |
There was a public occasion that brought us into contact with several noteworthy
men of the time,—the Anti-Corn-Law Meetings at Covent Garden Theatre, and the
Anti-Corn-Law-League Bazaar, held there in aid of the funds needed for the promotion of their
object. Richard Cobden, John
Bright, Charles Pelham Villiers,
George Wilson, W. J.
Fox, John Bowring (afterwards
Sir John), and Colonel Perronet
Thompson (afterwards General) were among the chief of these eloquent and earnest
speakers. An excellent hit was made by Mr. Fox one night, when dancing was
proposed to be got up after the speeches, and some of the demure and over-righteous objected to
it as indecorous. Instead of answering their objection he took a most ingenious course. He rose
to address the audience, and said, “I understand that dancing is about to take place,
and that some inconsiderate persons have insisted that everybody shall
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Of Richard Cobden’s delightful
society we had the honour and pleasure of enjoying a few perfect days in familiar home
intercourse, several years afterwards abroad; he and his wife coming over from Cannes and
taking up their abode under our cottage roof at Nice in the most easy, friendly, unaffected way
imaginable. Of one Christmas Eve especially we retain strong recollection: when Mrs. Cobden sat helping us women-folk to stone raisins, cut
candied fruits, slice almonds, and otherwise to make housewifely preparation for the
morrow’s plum-pudding—a British institution never allowed to pass into desuetude in
our family—while Cobden himself read aloud the English newspapers to
us in his own peculiar, practical, perspicuous way—going through the Parliamentary
debates line by line: and as he came to each member mentioned we observed that he invariably
added in parenthesis the constituency as thus:—“Mr.
Roebuck [Bath] observed that if Mr.
Disraeli [Buckinghamshire] thought that Mr.
Bright [Birmingham] intended
| RICHARD COBDEN—COL. THOMPSON. | 89 |
With Colonel Perronet Thompson we subsequently met under very pathetic circumstances. It was by the bedside of a poor young lady in St. George’s Hospital, whose friends had asked him to go and see her there while she was in London hoping for cure, and who had likewise been recommended to our occasional visitation during her stay in that excellent establishment. It was by her own brave wish that she had come up to town from a distant northern county, and the visits of the benevolent-hearted veteran were most cheering to her. His steel-grey hair, his ruddy complexion, his bright, intelligent eyes, his encouraging smile, his enlivening conversation, shed a reflection of fortitude and trust around her, and made her youthful face kindle into renewed expectation of recovery as he spoke. The expectation was ultimately and joyfully fulfilled; for she was so completely cured of her spinal complaint as to return to her home able to walk, to resume her active duties, and, finally, to marry happily and well.
It was not long before the last illness of Thomas
Hood that I (C. C. C.) met him at the house of a mutual friend, when his worn,
pallid look strangely belied the effect of jocularity and high spirits conveyed by his
writings. He punned incessantly but languidly, almost as if unable to think in any other way
than in play upon words. His smile was attractively sweet: it bespoke the affectionate-natured
man which his serious verses—those especially addressed to his wife or to his
children—show him to be; and it also revealed the depth of pathos in his soul that
inspired his “Bridge of Sighs,”
“Song of
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While we were living at Bayswater some friends came to see us, accompanied by a young lady who, with her mother, was a neighbour of theirs, and in whom they took much interest, from her intellectual superiority and her enthusiasm of nature. She had luminous, dark eyes, with an elevated and spiritual cast of countenance; and was gentle and deferential in manner to her mother, and very kind and companionable towards the children of our friends, who had a large family of boys and girls, eager in play, active in juvenile pursuits, after the wont of their race. She seemed ever at hand to attend upon her mother, ever ready to enter into the delights of the child neighbours; and yet she was devoted heart and soul to the ambition of becoming an authoress, and spent hours in qualifying herself for the high vocation. Some time afterwards we read her most charming novel of “Nathalie,” and found that the young lady of the dark eyes and gentle, unassuming deportment, Julia Kavanagh, had commenced her career of popular novelist, which thenceforth never stinted or ceased in its prosperous course.
Our pretty homestead, Craven-hill Cottage, Bayswater, was one of the last
lingering remains of the old primitive simplicity of that neighbourhood, ere it became built
upon with modern houses, squares, and terraces. Of our own particular nook in that
parent-nest—the last that we
| MRS. LOUDON. | 91 |
We had two houses close by us that contained very kindly and pleasant neighbour friends. One was the house of Mrs. Loudon and her daughter; the other that of the Rev. Edward Tagart, his wife and his family. So near to us were they that we could at any time put on hat, hood, or shawl over evening-dress and walk to and from the pleasant parties that were given there. Nay, on one occasion, when Sheridan’s “Rivals” was got up at Mrs. Loudon’s by her daughter and some of their friends, the Mrs. Malaprop, the Lucy, and the David went on foot ready dressed for their respective parts from Cravenhill Cottage to No. 3, Porchester Terrace, with merely a cloak thrown over their stage costumes. The David also enacted Thomas the Coachman, “doubling the parts,” as it is called; so that he went in his many-caped driving-coat over his David’s dress. It chanced that he arrived just as the gentleman who was to play Fag was drinking tea with Mrs. Loudon, and she gave a cup also to the new arrival. Afterwards she told us that she had been much amused by learning that one of her maids had been overheard to say, “It’s very strange, but missus is taking tea with two livery servants.”
At Mrs. Loudon’s house we met
several persons of note and name: the Landseers, Edwin and Charles;
Martin, the painter of “Belshazzar’s Feast,” &c.; his clever-headed and amiable daughter,
Miss Martin;
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On one occasion, when Mrs. Loudon gave a fancy ball, few costumes, among the many very handsome and characteristic ones that gave picturesque variety to the scene, were more strikingly beautiful and artistic—as might be expected—than those of Owen Jones and the Bonomis.
Under Mr. Tagart’s roof we had the gratification of meeting one evening Ralph Waldo Emerson, who did one of the company the honour of requesting to be introduced to her, and paid her a kind compliment; while she, be it now confessed, was so occupied with a passage in one of his Essays that she had that morning been perusing with delight, and so longed to quote it to him and thank him for it, yet was so confused with the mingled fear of not repeating it accurately and the dread of appearing mad if she did venture to give utterance to what was passing in her mind, that she has often since had a pang of doubt that, as it was, she must have struck Emerson as peculiarly dull and absent and unconscious of the pleasure he really gave her.
One forenoon Mrs. Tagart, in her usual
amiable, thoughtful way, sent round to say that she expected Mrs.
Gaskell to lunch, and would we come and meet her? Joyfully did we accept; and
delightful was the meeting. We found a charming, brilliant-complexioned, but quiet-mannered
woman; thoroughly unaffected, thoroughly attractive—so modest that she blushed like a
girl when we hazarded some expression of our ardent admiration of her “Mary Barton;” so full of enthusiasm on general
| MRS. GASKELL. | 93 |
It was at a party at the Tagarts’
house that we were introduced by Leigh Hunt to Charles Dickens; when an additional light and delight seemed
brought into our life. He had been so long known to us in our own home as “Dear
Dickens,” or “Darling Dickens,”
as we eagerly read, month after month, the moment they came out, the successive numbers of his
gloriously original and heart-stirring productions, that to be presented to
“Mr. Charles Dickens,” and to hear him spoken of as
“Mr. Dickens,” seemed quite strange. That very
evening—immediately—we felt at home and at ease with him. Genial, bright,
lively-spirited, pleasant-toned, he entered into conversation with a grace and charm that made
it feel perfectly natural to be chatting and laughing as if we had known each other from
childhood. So hearty was his enjoyment of what we were talking of that it caught the attention
of our hostess, and she came up to inquire
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All three it has been our good-hap to enjoy completely;
| CHARLES DICKENS | 95 |
His having heard of the recent private performance of “The Rivals” caused Charles Dickens that very evening of our first seeing him to allude in obliging
terms to the “golden opinions” he understood my Mrs.
Malaprop had won; and this led to my telling him that I understood he was
organizing an amateur company to play Shakespeare’s “Merry
Wives of Windsor,” and that I should be only too delighted if he would have me
for his Dame Quickly. He at first took this for a
playfully-made offer; but afterwards, finding I made it seriously and in all good faith, he
accepted: the details of this enchanting episode in my life I reserve till we come to our
Letters and Recollections of Charles Dickens; but meanwhile I may mention
that it brought us into most pleasant acquaintance with John
Forster, Mark Lemon, John Leech, Augustus Egg,
George Cruikshank, Frank
Stone, F. W. Topham, George H. Lewes, and, correlatively, with Charles Knight, J. Payne
Collier, Sheriff Gordon, and Robert Chambers. Of those who were fellow-actors in the
glorious amateur company further will be said in the place above pre-referred to; but of the
four last-named men it is pleasant to speak at once. Both Charles Knight
and J. Payne Collier in their conduct towards us thoroughly reversed the
more usual behaviour of Shakespearian editors and commentators among each other: for
Charles Knight was marked in his courtesy and kindness, while
Payne Collier went so far as to entrust the concluding volume of his
1842-4 edition of Shakespeare, which was
then still in manuscript, to Mary Cowden Clarke, that
she might collate his readings and incorporate them in her “Concordance” before publication,
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John T. Gordon, Sheriff of Mid-Lothian, was one of the most genial, frank-mannered, hearty-spoken men that ever lived. His sociality and hospitality were of the most engaging kind; and his personal intercourse was as inspiriting as his expressions of friendliness in his letters were cordial.
Of Robert Chambers’s friendly,
open-armed reception to those who went to Edinburgh and needed introduction to the beauties of
this Queen City of North Britain, no terms can be too strong or too high. He placed himself at
the disposal of such visitors with the utmost unreserve and the most unwearied kindness; and no
man was better fitted to act cicerone by the most interesting among the numerous noteworthy
objects there to be seen. He
| ROBERT CHAMBERS. | 97 |
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