Chapter 43

THROUGH the Cayley family, I became very intimate with theirnear relatives the Worsleys of Hovingham, near York.

　　Hovingham has now become known to the musical world throughits festivals, annually held at the Hall under the patronageof its late owner, Sir William Worsley. It was in hisfather's time that this fine place, with its delightfulfamily, was for many years a home to me. Here I met theAlisons, and at the kind invitation of Sir Archibald, paidthe great historian a visit at Possil, his seat in Scotland.

　　As men who had achieved scientific or literary distinctioninspired me with far greater awe than those of the highestrank - of whom from my childhood I had seen abundance -Alison's celebrity, his courteous manner, his oracularspeech, his voluminous works, and his voluminous dimensions,filled me with too much diffidence and respect to admit ofany freedom of approach. One listened to him, as he heldforth of an evening when surrounded by his family, withreverential silence. He had a strong Scotch accent; and, ifa wee bit prosy at times, it was sententious and polishedprose that he talked; he talked invariably like a book. Hisfamily were devoted to him; and I felt that no one who knewhim could help liking him.

　　When Thackeray was giving readings from 'The Four Georges,' Idined with Lady Grey and Landseer, and we three went to hearhim. I had heard Dickens read 'The Trial of Bardell againstPickwick,' and it was curious to compare the style of the twogreat novelists. With Thackeray, there was an entire absenceof either tone or colour. Of course the historical nature ofhis subject precluded the dramatic suggestion to be lookedfor in the Pickwick trial, thus rendering comparisoninapposite. Nevertheless one was bound to contrast them.

　　Thackeray's features were impassive, and his voice knew noinflection. But his elocution in other respects was perfect,admirably distinct and impressive from its completeobliteration of the reader.

　　The selection was from the reign of George the Third; and nopart of it was more attentively listened to than his passingallusion to himself. 'I came,' he says, 'from India as achild, and our ship touched at an island on the way home,where my black servant took me a long walk over rocks andhills until we reached a garden, where we saw a man walking.

　　"That is he," said the black man, "that is Bonaparte! Heeats three sheep every day, and all the little children hecan lay hands on!"' One went to hear Thackeray, to seeThackeray; and the child and the black man and the ogre werethere on the stage before one. But so well did the lecturerperform his part, that ten minutes later one had forgottenhim, and saw only George Selwyn and his friend HoraceWalpole, and Horace's friend, Miss Berry - whom by the way Itoo knew and remember. One saw the 'poor society ghastly inits pleasures, its loves, its revelries,' and the redeemingvision of 'her father's darling, the Princess Amelia,pathetic for her beauty, her sweetness, her early death, andfor the extreme passionate tenderness with which her fatherloved her.' The story told, as Thackeray told it, was asdelightful to listen to as to read.

　　Not so with Dickens. He disappointed me. He made no attemptto represent the different characters by varied utterance;but whenever something unusually comic was said, or about tobe said, he had a habit of turning his eyes up to theceiling; so that, knowing what was coming, one nervouslyanticipated the upcast look, and for the moment lost theillusion. In both entertainments, the reader was naturallythe central point of interest. But in the case of Dickens,when curiosity was satisfied, he alone possessed one;Pickwick and Mrs. Bardell were put out of court.

　　Was it not Charles Lamb, or was it Hazlitt, that could notbear to see Shakespeare upon the stage? I agree with him. Ihave never seen a Falstaff that did not make me miserable.

　　He is even more impossible to impersonate than Hamlet. Aplayer will spoil you the character of Hamlet, but he cannotspoil his thoughts. Depend upon it, we are fortunate not tohave seen Shakespeare in his ghost of Royal Denmark.

　　In 1861 I married Lady Katharine Egerton, second daughter ofLord Wilton, and we took up our abode in Warwick Square,which, by the way, I had seen a few years before as a turnipfield. My wife was an accomplished pianiste, so we had agreat deal of music, and saw much of the artist world. I maymention one artistic dinner amongst our early efforts athousekeeping, which nearly ended with a catastrophe.

　　Millais and Dicky Doyle were of the party; music wasrepresented by Joachim, Piatti, and Halle. The late Lord andLady de Ros were also of the number. Lady de Ros, who was adaughter of the Duke of Richmond, had danced at the ballgiven by her father at Brussels the night before Waterloo.

　　As Lord de Ros was then Governor of the Tower, it will beunderstood that he was a veteran of some standing. The greatmusical trio were enchanting all ears with their faultlessperformance, when the sweet and soul-stirring notes of theAdagio were suddenly interrupted by a loud crash and ashriek. Old Lord de Ros was listening to the music on a sofaat the further end of the room. Over his head was a largepicture in a heavy frame. What vibrations, what carelesshanging, what mischievous Ate or Discord was at the bottom ofit, who knows? Down came the picture on the top of the poorold General's head, and knocked him senseless on the floor.

　　He had to be carried upstairs and laid upon a bed. Happilyhe recovered without serious injury. There were manyexclamations of regret, but the only one I remember wasMillais'. All he said was: 'And it is a good picture too.'

　　Sir Arthur Sullivan was one of our musical favourites. Mywife had known him as a chorister boy in the Chapel Royal;and to the end of his days we were on terms of the closestintimacy and friendship. Through him we made theacquaintance of the Scott Russells. Mr. Scott Russell wasthe builder of the Crystal Palace. He had a delightfulresidence at Sydenham, the grounds of which adjoined those ofthe Crystal Palace, and were beautifully laid out by hisfriend Sir Joseph Paxton. One of the daughters, Miss RachelRussell, was a pupil of Arthur Sullivan's. She had greatmusical talent, she was remarkably handsome, exceedinglyclever and well-informed, and altogether exceptionallyfascinating. Quite apart from Sullivan's genius, he was inevery way a charming fellow. The teacher fell in love withthe pupil; and, as naturally, his love was returned.

　　Sullivan was but a youth, a poor and struggling music-master.

　　And, very naturally again, Mrs. Scott Russell, who could notbe expected to know what magic baton the young maestrocarried in his knapsack, thought her brilliant daughter mightdo better. The music lessons were put a stop to, andcorrespondence between the lovers was prohibited.

　　Once a week or so, either the young lady or the younggentleman would, quite unexpectedly, pay us a visit about teaor luncheon time. And, by the strangest coincidence, theother would be sure to drop in while the one was there. Thiswent on for a year or two. But destiny forbade the banns.

　　In spite of the large fortune acquired by Mr. Scott Russell -he was the builder of the 'Great Eastern' as well as theCrystal Palace - ill-advised or unsuccessful ventures robbedhim of his well-earned wealth. His beautiful place atSydenham had to be sold; and the marriage of Miss Rachel withyoung Arthur Sullivan was abandoned. She ultimately marriedan Indian official.

　　Her story may here be told to the end. Some years later shereturned to England to bring her two children home for theireducation, going back to India without them, as Indianmothers have to do. The day before she sailed, she called totake leave of us in London. She was terribly depressed, butfought bravely with her trial. She never broke down, butshunted the subject, talking and laughing with flashes of herold vivacity, about music, books, friends, and 'dear olddirty London,' as she called it. When she left, I opened thestreet-door for her, and with both her hands in mine, badeher 'Farewell.' Then the tears fell, and her parting wordswere: 'I am leaving England never to see it again.' She wasseized with cholera the night she reached Bombay, and diedthe following day.

　　To return to her father, the eminent engineer. He wasdistinctly a man of genius, and what is called 'a character.'

　　He was always in the clouds - not in the vapour of hisengine-rooms, nor busy inventing machines for extractingsunbeams from cucumbers, but musing on metaphysical problemsand abstract speculations about the universe generally. Inother respects a perfectly simple-minded man.

　　It was in his palmy days that he invited me to run down toSheerness with him, and go over the 'Great Eastern' beforeshe left with the Atlantic cable. This was in 1865. Thelargest ship in the world, and the first Atlantic cable, wereboth objects of the greatest interest. The builder did notknow the captain - Anderson - nor did the captain know thebuilder. But clearly, each would be glad to meet the other.

　　As the leviathan was to leave in a couple of days, everythingon board her was in the wildest confusion. Russell could notfind anyone who could find the Captain; so he began pokingabout with me, till we accidentally stumbled on theCommander. He merely said that he was come to take a partingglance at his 'child,' which did not seem of much concern tothe over-busy captain. He never mentioned his own name, butintroduced me as 'my friend Captain Cole.' Now, in thosedays, Captain Cole was well known as a distinguished navalofficer. To Russell's absent and engineering mind, 'Coke'

　　had suggested 'Cole,' and 'Captain' was inseparable from thelatter. It was a name to conjure with. Captain Andersontook off his cap, shook me warmly by the hand, expressed hispleasure at making my acquaintance, and hoped I, and myfriend Mr. - ahem - would come into his cabin and haveluncheon, and then allow him to show me over his ship. ScottRussell was far too deeply absorbed in his surroundings tonote any peculiarity in this neglect of himself and markedrespect for 'Captain Cole.' We made the round of the decks,then explored the engine room. Here the designer foundhimself in an earthly paradise. He button-holed the engineerand inquired into every crank, and piston, and valve, andevery bolt, as it seemed to me, till the officer in chargeunconsciously began to ask opinions instead of offeringexplanations. By degrees the captain was equally astonishedat the visitor's knowledge, and when at last my friend askedwhat had become of some fixture or other which he missed,Captain Anderson turned to him and exclaimed, 'Why, you seemto know more about the ship than I do.'

　　'Well, so I ought,' says my friend, never for a momentsupposing that Anderson was in ignorance of his identity.

　　'Indeed! Who then are you, pray?'

　　'Who? Why, Scott Russell of course, the builder!'

　　There was a hearty laugh over it all. I managed to spare thecaptain's feelings by preserving my incognito, and so ended apleasant day.