Chapter 41

BEFORE I went to America, I made the acquaintance of Dr.

　　George Bird; he continued to be one of my most intimatefriends till his death, fifty years afterwards. When I firstknew him, Bird was the medical adviser and friend of LeighHunt, whose family I used often to meet at his house. He hadbeen dependent entirely upon his own exertions; had marriedyoung; and had had a pretty hard fight at starting to providefor his children and for himself. His energy, his abilities,his exceeding amiability, and remarkable social qualities,gradually procured him a large practice and hosts of devotedfriends. He began looking for the season for sprats - thecheapest of fish - to come in; by middle life he washabitually and sumptuously entertaining the celebrities ofart and literature. With his accomplished sister, Miss AliceBird, to keep house for him, there were no pleasanter dinnerparties or receptions in London. His CLIENTELE was mainlyamongst the artistic world. He was a great friend of MissEllen Terry's, Mr. Marcus Stone and his sisters werefrequenters of his house, so were Mr. Swinburne, Mr. Woolnerthe sculptor - of whom I was not particularly fond - HoraceWigan the actor, and his father, the Burtons, who were muchattached to him - Burton dedicated one volume of his 'ArabianNights' to him - Sir William Crookes, Mr. Justin Macarthy andhis talented son, and many others.

　　The good doctor was a Radical and Home Ruler, and attendedprofessionally the members of one or two labouring men'sclubs for fees which, as far as I could learn, wererigorously nominal. His great delight was to get an orderfor the House of Commons, especially on nights when Mr.

　　Gladstone spoke; and, being to the last day of his life assimple-minded as a child, had a profound belief in thestatemanship and integrity of that renowned orator.

　　As far as personality goes, the Burtons were, perhaps, themost notable of the above-named. There was a mystery aboutBurton which was in itself a fascination. No one knew whathe had done; or consequently what he might not do. He neverboasted, never hinted that he had done, or could do, anythingdifferent from other men; and, in spite of the mystery, onefelt that he was transparently honest and sincere. He wasalways the same, always true to himself; but then, that'self' was a something PER SE, which could not becategorically classed - precedent for guidance was lacking.

　　There is little doubt Burton had gipsy blood in his veins;there was something Oriental in his temperament, and even inhis skin.

　　One summer's day I found him reading the paper in theAthenaeum. He was dressed in a complete suit of white -white trousers, a white linen coat, and a very shabby oldwhite hat. People would have stared at him anywhere.

　　'Hullo, Burton!' I exclaimed, touching his linen coat, 'Doyou find it so hot - DEJA?'

　　Said he: 'I don't want to be mistaken for other people.'

　　'There's not much fear of that, even without your clothes,' Ireplied.

　　Such an impromptu answer as his would, from any other, haveimplied vanity. Yet no man could have been less vain, ormore free from affectation. It probably concealed regret atfinding himself conspicuous.

　　After dinner at the Birds' one evening we fell to talking ofgarrotters. About this time the police reports were full ofcases of garrotting. The victim was seized from behind, oneman gagged or burked him, while another picked his pocket.

　　'What should you do, Burton?' the Doctor asked, 'if theytried to garrotte you?'

　　'I'm quite ready for 'em,' was the answer; and turning up hissleeve he partially pulled out a dagger, and shoved it backagain.

　　We tried to make him tell us what became of the Arab boy whoaccompanied him to Mecca, and whose suspicions threatenedBurton's betrayal, and, of consequence, his life. I don'tthink anyone was present except us two, both of whom he wellknew to be quite shock-proof, but he held his tongue.

　　'You would have been perfectly justified in saving your ownlife at any cost. You would hardly have broken the sixthcommandment by doing so in this case,' I suggested.

　　'No,' said he gravely, 'and as I had broken all the tenbefore, it wouldn't have so much mattered.'

　　The Doctor roared. It should, however, be stated that Burtontook no less delight in his host's boyish simplicity, thanthe other in what he deemed his guest's superb candour.

　　'Come, tell us,' said Bird, 'how many men have you killed?'

　　'How many have you, Doctor?' was the answer.

　　Richard Burton was probably the most extraordinary linguistof his day. Lady Burton mentions, I think, in his Life, thenumber of languages and dialects her husband knew. ThatMahometans should seek instruction from him in the Koran,speaks of itself for his astonishing mastery of the greatestlinguistic difficulties. With Indian languages and theirvariations, he was as completely at home as Miss Youghal'sSais; and, one may suppose, could have played the ROLE of afakir as perfectly as he did that of a Mecca pilgrim. Iasked him what his method was in learning a fresh language.

　　He said he wrote down as many new words as he could learn andremember each day; and learnt the construction of thelanguage colloquially, before he looked at a grammar.

　　Lady Burton was hardly less abnormal in her way than SirRichard. She had shared his wanderings, and was intimate, asno one else was, with the eccentricities of his thoughts anddeeds. Whatever these might happen to be, she worshipped herhusband notwithstanding. For her he was the standard ofexcellence; all other men were departures from it. And thesingularity is, her religious faith was never for an instantshaken - she remained as strict a Roman Catholic as when hemarried her from a convent. Her enthusiasm andcosmopolitanism, her NAIVETE and the sweetness of herdisposition made her the best of company. She had lived somuch the life of a Bedouin, that her dress and her habits hadan Eastern glow. When staying with the Birds, she wasattended by an Arab girl, one of whose duties it was toprepare her mistress' chibouk, which was regularly brought inwith the coffee. On one occasion, when several other ladieswere dining there, some of them yielded to Lady Burton'spersuasion to satisfy their curiosity. The Arab girl soonprovided the means; and it was not long before there werefour or five faces as white as Mrs. Alfred Wigan's, undersimilar circumstances, in the 'Nabob.'

　　Alfred Wigan's father was an unforgettable man. To describehim in a word, he was Falstag REDIVIVUS. In bulk andstature, in age, in wit and humour, and morality, he wasFalstaff. He knew it and gloried in it. He would complainwith zest of 'larding the lean earth' as he walked along. Hewas as partial to whisky as his prototype to sack. He wouldexhaust a Johnsonian vocabulary in describing his ailments;and would appeal pathetically to Miss Bird, as though at hislast gasp, for 'just a tea-spoonful' of the gratefulstimulant. She served him with a liberal hand, till he cried'Stop!' But if she then stayed, he would softly insinuate 'Ididn't mean it, my dear.' Yet he was no Costigan. His brainwas stronger than casks of whisky. And his powers ofdigestion were in keeping. Indeed, to borrow the well-knownwords applied to a great man whom we all love, 'He tore hisdinner like a famished wolf, with the veins swelling in hisforehead, and the perspiration running down his cheeks.' Thetrend of his thoughts, though he was eminently a man ofintellect, followed the dictates of his senses. Walk withhim in the fields and, from the full stores of a prodigiousmemory, he would pour forth pages of the choicest poetry.

　　But if you paused to watch the lambs play, or disturbed ayoung calf in your path, he would almost involuntarilyexclaim: 'How deliciously you smell of mint, my pet!' or'Bless your innocent face! What sweetbreads you willprovide!'

　　James Wigan had kept a school once. The late SerjeantBallantine, who was one of his pupils, mentions him in hisautobiography. He was a good scholar, and when I first knewhim, used to teach elocution. Many actors went to him, andnot a few members of both Houses of Parliament. He couldrecite nearly the whole of several of Shakespeare's plays;and, with a dramatic art I have never known equalled by anypublic reader.

　　His later years were passed at Sevenoaks, where he kept anestablishment for imbeciles, or weak-minded youths. I oftenstayed with him (not as a patient), and a very comfortableand pretty place it was. Now and then he would call on me inLondon; and, with a face full of theatrical woe, tell me,with elaborate circumlocution, how the Earl of This, or theMarquis of That, had implored him to take charge of youngLord So-and-So, his son; who, as all the world knew, had -well, had 'no guts in his brains.' Was there ever such achance? Just consider what it must lead to! Everybody knew- no, nobody knew - the enormous number of idiots there werein noble families. And, such a case as that of young LordDash - though of course his residence at Sevenoaks would be aprofound secret, would be patent to the whole peerage; and,my dear sir, a fortune to your humble servant, if - ah! if hecould only secure it!'

　　'But I thought you said you had been implored to take him?'

　　'I did say so. I repeat it. His Lordship's father came tome with tears in his eyes. "My dear Wigan," were thatnobleman's words, "do me this one favour and trust me, youwill never regret it!" But - ' he paused to remove thedramatic tear, 'but, I hardly dare go on. Yes - yes, I knowyour kindness' (seizing my hand) 'I know how ready you are tohelp me' - (I hadn't said a word) - 'but - '

　　'How much is it this time? and what is it for?'

　　'For? I have told you what it is for. The merest triflewill suffice. I have the room - a beautiful room, the bestaspect in the house. It is now occupied by young RumageeBumagee the great Bombay millionaire's son. Of course he canbe moved. But a bed - there positively is not a spare bed inthe house. This is all I want - a bed, and perhaps atuppenny ha'penny strip of carpet, a couple of chairs, a -let me see; if you give me a slip of paper I can make out ina minute what it will come to.'

　　'Never mind that. Will a ten-pound note serve yourpurposes?'

　　'Dear boy! Dear boy! But on one condition, on one conditiononly, can I accept it - this is a loan, a loan mind! and nota gift. No, no - it is useless to protest; my pride, mysense of honour, forbids my acceptance upon any other terms.'

　　A day or two afterwards I would learn from George Bird thathe and Miss Alice had accepted an invitation to meet me atSevenoaks. Mr. Donovan, the famous phrenologist, was to beof the party; the Rector of Sevenoaks, and one or two localmagnates, had also been invited to dine. We Londoners wereto occupy the spare rooms, for this was in the coaching days.

　　We all knew what we had to expect - a most enjoyable banquetof conviviality. Young Mrs. Wigan, his second wife, was anadmirable housekeeper, and nothing could have been betterdone. The turbot and the haunch of venison were the pick ofGrove's shop, the champagne was iced to perfection, and therewas enough of it, as Mr. Donovan whispered to me, casting hiseyes to the ceiling, 'to wash an omnibus, bedad.' Mr.

　　Donovan, though he never refused Mr. Wigan's hospitality,balanced the account by vilipending his friend's extravaganthabits. While Mr. Wigan, probably giving him full credit forhis gratitude, always spoke of him as 'Poor old PaddyDonovan.'

　　With Alfred Wigan, the eldest son, I was on very friendlyterms. Nothing could be more unlike his father. His mannerin his own house was exactly what it was on the stage.

　　Albany Fonblanque, whose experiences began nearly forty yearsbefore mine, and who was not given to waste his praise, toldme he considered Alfred Wigan the best 'gentleman' he hadever seen on the stage. I think this impression was due in agreat measure to Wigan's entire absence of affectation, andto his persistent appeal to the 'judicious' but never to the'groundlings.' Mrs. Alfred Wigan was also a consummateartiste.