In a colonnade8, on the first floor, surrounding the great basement hall, there are portraits of distinguished9 reformers, and black niches10 for others yet to come. Joseph Hume, I believe, is destined11 to fill one of these blanks; but I remarked that the larger part of the portraits, already hung up, are of men of high rank,—the Duke of Sussex, for instance; Lord Durham, Lord Grey; and, indeed, I remember no commoner. In one room, I saw on the wall the fac-simile, so common in the United States, of our Declaration of Independence.
Descending12 again to the basement hall, an elderly gentleman came in, and was warmly welcomed by Dr. ———. He was a very short man, but with breadth enough, and a back excessively bent,—bowed almost to deformity; very gray hair, and a face and expression of remarkable13 briskness14 and intelligence. His profile came out pretty boldly, and his eyes had the prominence15 that indicates, I believe, volubility of speech, nor did he fail to talk from the instant of his appearance; and in the tone of his voice, and in his glance, and in the whole man, there was something racy,—a flavor of the humorist. His step was that of an aged16 man, and he put his stick down very decidedly at every footfall; though as he afterwards told me that he was only fifty-two, he need not yet have been infirm. But perhaps he has had the gout; his feet, however, are by no means swollen17, but unusually small. Dr. ——— introduced him as Mr. Douglas Jerrold, and we went into the coffee-room to dine.
The coffee-room occupies one whole side of the edifice, and is provided with a great many tables, calculated for three or four persons to dine at; and we sat down at one of these, and Dr. ——— ordered some mulligatawny soup, and a bottle of white French wine. The waiters in the coffee-room are very numerous, and most of them dressed in the livery of the Club, comprising plush breeches and white-silk stockings; for these English Reformers do not seem to include Republican simplicity18 of manners in their system. Neither, perhaps, is it anywise essential.
After the soup, we had turbot, and by and by a bottle of Chateau19 Margaux, very delectable20; and then some lambs' feet, delicately done, and some cutlets of I know not what peculiar21 type; and finally a ptarmigan, which is of the same race of birds as the grouse22, but feeds high up towards the summits of the Scotch23 mountains. Then some cheese, and a bottle of Chambertin. It was a very pleasant dinner, and my companions were both very agreeable men; both taking a shrewd, satirical, yet not ill-natured, view of life and people, and as for Mr. Douglas Jerrold, he often reminded me of E—— C———, in the richer veins24 of the latter, both by his face and expression, and by a tincture of something at once wise and humorously absurd in what he said. But I think he has a kinder, more genial25, wholesomer nature than E——, and under a very thin crust of outward acerbity26 I grew sensible of a very warm heart, and even of much simplicity of character in this man, born in London, and accustomed always to London life.
I wish I had any faculty27 whatever of remembering what people say; but, though I appreciate anything good at the moment, it never stays in my memory; nor do I think, in fact, that anything definite, rounded, pointed28, separable, and transferable from the general lump of conversation was said by anybody. I recollect29 that they laughed at Mr. ———, and at his shedding a tear into a Scottish river, on occasion of some literary festival. . . . They spoke30 approvingly of Bulwer, as valuing his literary position, and holding himself one of the brotherhood31 of authors; and not so approvingly of Charles Dickens, who, born a plebeian32, aspires33 to aristocratic society. But I said that it was easy to condescend34, and that Bulwer knew he could not put off his rank, and that he would have all the advantages of it in spite of his authorship. We talked about the position of men of letters in England, and they said that the aristocracy hated and despised and feared them; and I asked why it was that literary men, having really so much power in their hands, were content to live unrecognized in the State.
Douglas Jerrold talked of Thackeray and his success in America, and said that he himself purposed going and had been invited thither35 to lecture. I asked him whether it was pleasant to a writer of plays to see them performed; and he said it was intolerable, the presentation of the author's idea being so imperfect; and Dr. ——— observed that it was excruciating to hear one of his own songs sung. Jerrold spoke of the Duke of Devonshire with great warmth, as a true, honest, simple, most kind-hearted man, from whom he himself had received great courtesies and kindnesses (not, as I understood, in the way of patronage36 or essential favors); and I (Heaven forgive me!) queried37 within myself whether this English reforming author would have been quite so sensible of the Duke's excellence38 if his Grace had not been a duke. But indeed, a nobleman, who is at the same time a true and whole-hearted man, feeling his brotherhood with men, does really deserve some credit for it.
In the course of the evening, Jerrold spoke with high appreciation39 of Emerson; and of Longfellow, whose Hiawatha he considered a wonderful performance; and of Lowell, whose Fable40 for Critics he especially admired. I mentioned Thoreau, and proposed to send his works to Dr. ———, who, being connected with the Illustrated41 News, and otherwise a writer, might be inclined to draw attention to then. Douglas Jerrold asked why he should not have them too. I hesitated a little, but as he pressed me, and would have an answer, I said that I did not feel quite so sure of his kindly42 judgment43 on Thoreau's books; and it so chanced that I used the word "acrid44" for lack of a better, in endeavoring to express my idea of Jerrold's way of looking at men and books. It was not quite what I meant; but, in fact, he often is acrid, and has written pages and volumes of acridity45, though, no doubt, with an honest purpose, and from a manly46 disgust at the cant47 and humbug48 of the world. Jerrold said no more, and I went on talking with Dr. ———; but, in a minute or two, I became aware that something had gone wrong, and, looking at Douglas Jerrold, there was an expression of pain and emotion on his face. By this time a second bottle of Burgundy had been opened (Clos Vougeot, the best the Club could produce, and far richer than the Chambertin), and that warm and potent49 wine may have had something to do with the depth and vivacity50 of Mr. Jerrold's feelings. But he was indeed greatly hurt by that little word "acrid." "He knew," he said, "that the world considered him a sour, bitter, ill-natured man; but that such a man as I should have the sane51 opinion was almost more than he could bear." As he spoke, he threw out his arms, sank back in his seat, and I was really a little apprehensive52 of his actual dissolution into tears. Hereupon I spoke, as was good need, and though, as usual, I have forgotten everything I said, I am quite sure it was to the purpose, and went to this good fellow's heart, as it came warmly from my own. I do remember saying that I felt him to be as genial as the glass of Burgundy which I held in my hand; and I think that touched the very right spot; for he smiled, and said he was afraid the Burgundy was better than he, but yet he was comforted. Dr. ——— said that he likewise had a reputation for bitterness; and I assured him, if I might venture to join myself to the brotherhood of two such men, that I was considered a very ill-natured person by many people in my own country. Douglas Jerrold said he was glad of it.
We were now in sweetest harmony, and Jerrold spoke more than it would become me to repeat in praise of my own books, which he said he admired, and he found the man more admirable than his books! I hope so, certainly.
We now went to the Haymarket Theatre, where Douglas Jerrold is on the free list; and after seeing a ballet by some Spanish dancers, we separated, and betook ourselves to our several homes. I like Douglas Jerrold very much.
April 8th.—On Saturday evening, at ten o'clock, I went to a supper-party at Mr. D———'s, and there met five or six people,—Mr. Faed, a young and distinguished artist; Dr. Eliotson, a dark, sombre, taciturn, powerful-looking man, with coal-black hair, and a beard as black, fringing round his face; Mr. Charles Reade, author of Christie Johnstone and other novels, and many plays,—a tall man, more than thirty, fair-haired, and of agreeable talk and demeanor53.
On April 6th, I went to the Waterloo station, and there meeting Bennoch and Dr. ———, took the rail for Woking, where we found Mr. Hall's carriage waiting to convey us to Addlestone, about five miles off. On arriving we found that Mr. and Mrs. Hall had not yet returned from church. Their place is an exceedingly pretty one, and arranged in very good taste. The house is not large; but is filled, in every room, with fine engravings, statuettes, ingenious prettinesses or beautifulnesses in the way of flower-stands, cabinets, and things that seem to have bloomed naturally out of the characters of its occupants. There is a conservatory54 connected with the drawing-room, and enriched with lovely plants, one of which has a certain interest as being the plant on which Coleridge's eyes were fixed55 when he died. This conservatory is likewise beautified with several very fine casts of statues by modern sculptors56, among which was the Greek Slave of Powers, which my English friends criticised as being too thin and meagre; but I defended it as in accordance with American ideas of feminine beauty. From the conservatory we passed into the garden, but did not minutely examine it, knowing that Mr. Hall would wish to lead us through it in person. So, in the mean time, we took a walk in the neighborhood, over stiles and along by-paths, for two or three miles, till we reached the old village of Chertsey. In one of its streets stands an ancient house, gabled, and with the second story projecting over the first, and bearing an inscription57 to the purport4 that the poet Cowley had once resided, and, I think, died there. Thence we passed on till we reached a bridge over the Thames, which at this point, about twenty-five miles from London, is a narrow river, but looks clean and pure, and unconscious what abominations the city sewers58 will pour into it anon. We were caught in two or three showers in the course of our walk; but got back to Firfield without being very much wetted.
Our host and hostess had by this time returned from church, and Mrs. Hall came frankly59 and heartily60 to the door to greet us, scolding us (kindly) for having got wet. . . . I liked her simple, easy, gentle, quiet manners, and I liked her husband too.
He has a wide and quick sympathy, and expresses it freely. . . . The world is the better for him.
The shower being now over, we went out upon the beautiful lawn before his house, where there were a good many trees of various kinds, many of which have been set out by persons of great or small distinction, and are labelled with their names. Thomas Moore's name was appended to one; Maria Edgeworth's to another; likewise Fredrika Bremer's, Jenny Lind's; also Grace Greenwood's, and I know not whose besides. This is really a pleasant method of enriching one's grounds with memorials of friends, nor is there any harm in making a shrubbery of celebrities61. Three holes were already dug, and three new trees lay ready to be planted, and for me there was a sumach to plant,—a tree I never liked; but Mr. Hall said that they had tried to dig up a hawthorn62, but found it clung too fast to the soil. So, since better might not be, and telling Mr. Hall that I supposed I should have a right to hang myself on this tree whenever I chose, I seized a spade, and speedily shovelled63 in a great deal of dirt; and there stands my sumach, an object of interest to posterity64! Bennoch also and Dr. ——— set out their trees, and indeed, it was in some sense a joint65 affair, for the rest of the party held up each tree, while its godfather shovelled in the earth; but, after all, the gardener had more to do with it than we. After this important business was over, Mr. Hall led us about his rounds, which are very nicely planned and ordered; and all this he has bought, and built, and laid out, from the profits of his own and his wife's literary exertions66.
We dined early, and had a very pleasant dinner, and, after the cloth was removed, Mr. Hall was graciously pleased to drink my health, following it with a long tribute to my genius. I answered briefly67; and one half of my short speech was in all probability very foolish. . . .
After the ladies (there were three, one being a girl of seventeen, with rich auburn hair, the adopted daughter of the Halls) had retired68, Dr. ——— having been toasted himself, proposed Mrs. Hall's health.
I did not have a great deal of conversation with Mrs. Hall; but enough to make me think her a genuine and good woman, unspoilt by a literary career, and retaining more sentiment than even most girls keep beyond seventeen. She told me that it had been the dream of her life to see Longfellow and myself! . . . . Her dream is half accomplished69 now, and, as they say Longfellow is coming over this summer, the remainder may soon be rounded out. On taking leave, our kind hosts presented me with some beautiful flowers, and with three volumes of a work, by themselves, on Ireland; and Dr. ——— was favored also with some flowers, and a plant in a pot, and Bennoch too had his hands full, . . . . and we went on our way rejoicing.
[Here follows an account of the Lord Mayor's dinner, taken mostly for Our Old Home; but I think I will copy this more exact description of the lady mentioned in "Civic70 Banquets."—ED.]
. . . . My eyes were mostly drawn71 to a young lady, who sat nearly opposite me, across the table. She was, I suppose, dark, and yet not dark, but rather seemed to be of pure white marble, yet not white; but the purest and finest complexion72, without a shade of color in it, yet anything but sallow or sickly. Her hair was a wonderful deep raven-black, black as night, black as death; not raven-black, for that has a shiny gloss73, and hers had not, but it was hair never to be painted nor described,—wonderful hair, Jewish hair. Her nose had a beautiful outline, though I could see that it was Jewish too; and that, and all her features, were so fine that sculpture seemed a despicable art beside her, and certainly my pen is good for nothing. If any likeness74 could be given, however; it must be by sculpture, not painting. She was slender and youthful, and yet had a stately and cold, though soft and womanly grace; and, looking at her, I saw what were the wives of the old patriarchs in their maiden75 or early-married days,—what Judith was, for, womanly as she looked, I doubt, not she could have slain76 a man in a just cause,—what Bathsheba was, only she seemed to have no sin in her,— perhaps what Eve was, though one could hardly think her weak enough to eat the apple. . . . Whether owing to distinctness of race, my sense that she was a Jewess, or whatever else, I felt a sort of repugnance77, simultaneously78 with my perception that she was an admirable creature.
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1
mosaic
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| n./adj.镶嵌细工的，镶嵌工艺品的，嵌花式的 | |
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dome
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| n.圆屋顶，拱顶 | |
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edifice
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| n.宏伟的建筑物(如宫殿，教室) | |
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purport
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| n.意义，要旨，大要；v.意味著，做为...要旨，要领是... | |
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purports
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| v.声称是…，（装得）像是…的样子( purport的第三人称单数 ) | |
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luxuriously
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| adv.奢侈地，豪华地 | |
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enjoyment
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| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
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8
colonnade
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| n.柱廊 | |
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distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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niches
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| 壁龛( niche的名词复数 )； 合适的位置[工作等]； （产品的）商机； 生态位（一个生物所占据的生境的最小单位） | |
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destined
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| adj.命中注定的；(for)以…为目的地的 | |
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descending
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| n. 下行 adj. 下降的 | |
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remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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briskness
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| n.敏捷，活泼 | |
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prominence
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| n.突出；显著；杰出；重要 | |
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aged
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| adj.年老的，陈年的 | |
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swollen
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| adj.肿大的，水涨的；v.使变大，肿胀 | |
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simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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chateau
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| n.城堡，别墅 | |
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delectable
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| adj.使人愉快的；美味的 | |
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peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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grouse
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| n.松鸡；v.牢骚，诉苦 | |
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scotch
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| n.伤口，刻痕；苏格兰威士忌酒；v.粉碎，消灭，阻止；adj.苏格兰(人)的 | |
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veins
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| n.纹理；矿脉( vein的名词复数 )；静脉；叶脉；纹理 | |
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genial
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| adj.亲切的，和蔼的，愉快的，脾气好的 | |
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acerbity
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| n.涩，酸，刻薄 | |
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faculty
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| n.才能；学院，系；(学院或系的)全体教学人员 | |
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pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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recollect
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| v.回忆，想起，记起，忆起，记得 | |
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spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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brotherhood
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| n.兄弟般的关系，手中情谊 | |
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plebeian
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| adj.粗俗的；平民的；n.平民；庶民 | |
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aspires
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| v.渴望，追求( aspire的第三人称单数 ) | |
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condescend
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| v.俯就，屈尊；堕落，丢丑 | |
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thither
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| adv.向那里；adj.在那边的，对岸的 | |
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patronage
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| n.赞助，支援，援助；光顾，捧场 | |
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queried
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| v.质疑，对…表示疑问( query的过去式和过去分词 )；询问 | |
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excellence
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| n.优秀，杰出，(pl.)优点，美德 | |
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appreciation
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| n.评价；欣赏；感谢；领会，理解；价格上涨 | |
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fable
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| n.寓言；童话；神话 | |
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41
illustrated
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| adj. 有插图的，列举的 动词illustrate的过去式和过去分词 | |
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kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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acrid
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| adj.辛辣的，尖刻的，刻薄的 | |
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acridity
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| n.辛辣，狠毒；苛性；极苦 | |
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46
manly
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| adj.有男子气概的；adv.男子般地，果断地 | |
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cant
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| n.斜穿，黑话，猛扔 | |
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humbug
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| n.花招，谎话，欺骗 | |
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49
potent
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| adj.强有力的，有权势的；有效力的 | |
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50
vivacity
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| n.快活，活泼，精神充沛 | |
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51
sane
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| adj.心智健全的，神志清醒的，明智的，稳健的 | |
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52
apprehensive
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| adj.担心的，恐惧的，善于领会的 | |
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53
demeanor
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| n.行为；风度 | |
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54
conservatory
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| n.温室，音乐学院；adj.保存性的，有保存力的 | |
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fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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56
sculptors
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| 雕刻家，雕塑家( sculptor的名词复数 )； [天]玉夫座 | |
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57
inscription
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| n.（尤指石块上的）刻印文字，铭文，碑文 | |
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58
sewers
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| n.阴沟，污水管，下水道( sewer的名词复数 ) | |
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59
frankly
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| adv.坦白地，直率地；坦率地说 | |
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heartily
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| adv.衷心地，诚恳地，十分，很 | |
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celebrities
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| n.（尤指娱乐界的）名人( celebrity的名词复数 )；名流；名声；名誉 | |
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62
hawthorn
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| 山楂 | |
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63
shovelled
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| v.铲子( shovel的过去式和过去分词 )；锹；推土机、挖土机等的)铲；铲形部份 | |
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64
posterity
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| n.后裔，子孙，后代 | |
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joint
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| adj.联合的，共同的；n.关节，接合处；v.连接，贴合 | |
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66
exertions
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| n.努力( exertion的名词复数 )；费力；（能力、权力等的）运用；行使 | |
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67
briefly
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| adv.简单地，简短地 | |
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68
retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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69
accomplished
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| adj.有才艺的；有造诣的；达到了的 | |
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civic
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| adj.城市的，都市的，市民的，公民的 | |
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71
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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72
complexion
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| n.肤色；情况，局面；气质，性格 | |
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73
gloss
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| n.光泽，光滑；虚饰；注释；vt.加光泽于；掩饰 | |
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74
likeness
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| n.相像，相似（之处） | |
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75
maiden
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| n.少女，处女；adj.未婚的，纯洁的，无经验的 | |
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76
slain
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| 杀死，宰杀，杀戮( slay的过去分词 )； (slay的过去分词) | |
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77
repugnance
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| n.嫌恶 | |
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78
simultaneously
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| adv.同时发生地，同时进行地 | |
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