Chat No. 5.

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HeaderChat No. 5."To all their dated backs he turns you round:These Aldus printed, those Du Sueil has bound."—Pope.

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"To all their dated backs he turns you round:These Aldus printed, those Du Sueil has bound."

"To all their dated backs he turns you round:

These Aldus printed, those Du Sueil has bound."

—Pope.

Letter I

Itis the present fashion to extol the old bookbinders at the expense of the living, and for collectors to give fabulous prices for a volume bound by De Thou, Geoffroy Tory, Philippe le Noir, the two Eves (Nicolas and Clovis), Le Gascon, Derome, and others.

Beautiful, rare, and interesting as their work is, I venture to say that we havemodern bookbinders in England and France who can, and do, if you give them plenty of time and a free hand as to price, produce work as fine, as original, as closely thought out, as beautiful in design, material, and colour, as that of any of the great masters of the craft of olden days.

For perfectly simple work of the best kind, examine the bindings of the late Francis Bedford; and his name reminds me of a curious freak of the late Duke of Portland in relation to this art. He subscribed for all the ordinary newspapers and magazines of the day, and instead of consigning them to the waste-paper basket when read, had them whole bound in beautiful crushed morocco coats of many colours by the said Bedford; then he had perfectly fitting oaken boxes made, lined with white velvet, and fitted with a patent Bramah lock andduplicate keys, each box to hold one volume, the total cost of thus habiting this literary rubbish being about £40 a volume. Bedford kept a special staff of expert workmen upon this curious standing order until the Duke died. By his will he, unfortunately, made them heirlooms, otherwise they would have sold well as curiosities, many bibliophiles liking to have possessed a volume with so odd a history. Soon after the Duke's death I went over the well-known house in Cavendish Square with my kind friend Mr. Woods of King Street, and he showed me piles of these boxes, each containing its beautifully bound volume of uselessness.

But to return to our sheepskins. I would ask, where can you see finer workmanship than Mr. Joseph W. Zaehnsdorf puts into his enchanting covers? He once produced two lovelypieces of softly tanned, vellum-like leather of the purest white colour, and asked if I knew what they were. After some ineffectual guesses, he stated that the one with the somewhat coarser texture was a man's skin, and the finer specimen a woman's. The idea was disagreeable, and I declined to purchase or to have any volumes belonging to my simple shelves clothed in such garments.

An English bookbinder who made a name in his day was Hayday; he flourished (as the biographical dictionaries are fond of saying) in the beginning of the present reign. I possess Samuel Rogers' "Poems" and "Italy," in two quarto volumes, bound by him very charmingly. In this size Turner's drawings, which illustrate these two books, are shown to admiration, and alone galvanise these otherwise dreary works. Hayday was succeeded by oneMansell, who also did some good work; but I think domestic affliction beclouded his later years, and affected his business, as I have lost sight of him for some years.

Among other English bookbinders of the present day I would name Tout, whose simple, Quaker-like work, with Grolier tooling, is worth seeing. Mackenzie was, in his day, a good old Scotch binder; but the treasure I have personally found and introduced to many, is my excellent friend Mr. Birdsall of Northampton. His specialty is supposed to be in vellum bindings, which material he manipulates with a grace and finish very satisfactory to see. He can make the hinges of a vellum-bound book swing as easily as a friend's door. He spares no time, thought, or trouble in working out suitable designs for the books entrusted to his care. For instance,I possess Benjamin D'Israeli's German Grammar, used by him when a boy, and to bind it as he felt it deserved, he specially cast a brass stamp, with D'Israeli's crest, which, impressed adown the back and on the panels, correctly finishes this interesting memento. Then, again, when he had Beau Brummell's "Life" to work upon, he used dies representing a poppy, as an emblem flower, a money-bag, very empty, and a teasel, signifying the hanger-on: these show thought, as well as a pleasant fancy, and greatly add to the interest of the completed binding.

I have some work by M. Marius Michel, the great French binder, whose show-cases in the Faubourg-Saint-Germain, in Paris, were a treat to examine. He was kind enough to let me one fine day select and take therefrom two volumes of E. A. Poe's works translatedand noted by Beaudelaire, beautifully clothed by him; and he, at the same visit, gave me an autograph copy of his "L'Ornamentation des Reliures Modernes," with which, when I returned to England, I asked Mr. Birdsall to do what he could. Set a binder to catch a binder, was in this case our motto, and Mr. Birdsall has, I think, fairly caught out his great rival, although I have not yet had an opportunity of taking M. Michel's opinion upon the Englishman's work.

One of the leading characteristics of the present day is its craze for work, unceasing work, work early and late, work done with a rush, destroying nerves, and rendering repose impossible. "Late taking rest and eating the bread of carefulness" do not go together, the bread being as a rule anything but carefullyconsumed. R. L. Stevenson somewhere says, "So long as you are a bit of a coward, and inflexible in money matters, you fulfil the whole duty of man," and perhaps this is the creed of the present race of over-workers. In the City of London we see this hasting to be rich brought to the perfection of a Fine Art (with a capital F and a capital A).

Charles Dickens, who always resolved the wit of every question into a nutshell, makes Eugene Wrayburn, in "Our Mutual Friend," strenuously object to being always urged forward in the path of energy.

"There's nothing like work," said Mr. Boffin; "look at the bees!"

"I beg your pardon," returned Eugene, with a reluctant smile, "but will you excuse my mentioning that I always protest against being referred to the bees? ... I object on principle,as a two-footed creature, to being constantly referred to insects and four-footed creatures. I object to being required to model my proceedings according to the proceedings of the bee, or the dog, or the spider, or the camel. I fully admit that the camel, for instance, is an excessively temperate person; but he has several stomachs to entertain himself with, and I have only one."...

"But," urged Mr. Boffin, "I said the bee, they work."

"Yes," returned Eugene disparagingly, "they work, but don't you think they overdo it? They work so much more than they need—they make so much more than they can eat—they are so incessantly boring and buzzing at their one idea till Death comes upon them—that don't you think they overdo it?"

Some time since I cut from the pages of theSt. James' Gazettethe following"Cynical Song of the City," which pleasantly sets forth the present craze for work, and again proves, like Dickens' bee, that we rather overdo it:—

"Through the slush and the rain and the fog,When a greatcoat is worth a king's ransom,To the City we jolt and we jogOn foot, in a 'bus, or a hansom;To labour a few years, and then have done,A capital prospect at twenty-one!There's a wife and three children to keep,With chances of more in the offing;We've a house at Earl's Court on the cheap,And sometimes we get a day's golfing.Well! sooner or later we'll have better fun;The heart is still hopeful at thirty-one.The boy's gone to college to-day,The girls must have ladylike dresses;Thank goodness we're able to pay—The business has had its successes;We must grind at the mill for the sake of our son.Besides, we're still youngish at forty-one.It has come! We've a house in the shires,We're one of the land-owning gentry,The children have all their desires,Butwemust do more double-entry;We must keep things together, no time left for fun,Ah! had we been twenty—not fifty—one!A Baronet! J.P.! D.L.!But it means harder work, little pleasure;We must stick to the City as well,Though we're tired and longing for leisure.We shall soon become toothless, dyspeptic, and done,As rich as the Bank, though we can't chew a bun,And the gold-grubber's grave is the goal that we've wonAt seventy—eighty—or ninety-one."

"Through the slush and the rain and the fog,

When a greatcoat is worth a king's ransom,

To the City we jolt and we jog

On foot, in a 'bus, or a hansom;

To labour a few years, and then have done,

A capital prospect at twenty-one!

There's a wife and three children to keep,With chances of more in the offing;We've a house at Earl's Court on the cheap,And sometimes we get a day's golfing.Well! sooner or later we'll have better fun;The heart is still hopeful at thirty-one.

There's a wife and three children to keep,

With chances of more in the offing;

We've a house at Earl's Court on the cheap,

And sometimes we get a day's golfing.

Well! sooner or later we'll have better fun;

The heart is still hopeful at thirty-one.

The boy's gone to college to-day,The girls must have ladylike dresses;Thank goodness we're able to pay—The business has had its successes;We must grind at the mill for the sake of our son.Besides, we're still youngish at forty-one.

The boy's gone to college to-day,

The girls must have ladylike dresses;

Thank goodness we're able to pay—

The business has had its successes;

We must grind at the mill for the sake of our son.

Besides, we're still youngish at forty-one.

It has come! We've a house in the shires,We're one of the land-owning gentry,The children have all their desires,Butwemust do more double-entry;We must keep things together, no time left for fun,Ah! had we been twenty—not fifty—one!

It has come! We've a house in the shires,

We're one of the land-owning gentry,

The children have all their desires,

Butwemust do more double-entry;

We must keep things together, no time left for fun,

Ah! had we been twenty—not fifty—one!

A Baronet! J.P.! D.L.!But it means harder work, little pleasure;We must stick to the City as well,Though we're tired and longing for leisure.We shall soon become toothless, dyspeptic, and done,As rich as the Bank, though we can't chew a bun,And the gold-grubber's grave is the goal that we've wonAt seventy—eighty—or ninety-one."

A Baronet! J.P.! D.L.!

But it means harder work, little pleasure;

We must stick to the City as well,

Though we're tired and longing for leisure.

We shall soon become toothless, dyspeptic, and done,

As rich as the Bank, though we can't chew a bun,

And the gold-grubber's grave is the goal that we've won

At seventy—eighty—or ninety-one."

Guests at Foxwold are given the opportunity, when black Monday arrives, of catching a most unearthly and uneasily early train, which involves their rising with anything but a lark, swallowing a hurried breakfast, a mounting into fiery untamed one-horse shays soon after eight, and then being puffed away through South-Eastern tunnels to the busy hum of those unduly busy men of whom we speak.

To catch this early train, which means that you "leave the warm precincts of your cheerful bed, nor cast one longing lingering look behind," some of our friends most justly object, preferring the early calm, the well-considered uprisal, the dawdled breakfast, and the ladies' train at the maturer hour of 10.30. Our dear friend, Mr. Anstey Guthrie, having firmly and most wisely declined the early train and any consequent worm, one very chilly morn, as the early risers were starting for the station, appeared at his chamber window awfully arrayed in white, and muttering with the fervour of another John Bradford, "There goes Anstey Guthrie—but for the grace of God," plunged back into his rapidly cooling couch, "and left the world to darkness and to us."

HeaderChat No. 6."It's idle to repine, I know;I'll tell you what I'll do instead,I'll drink my arrowroot, and goTo bed."—C. S. C.

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"It's idle to repine, I know;I'll tell you what I'll do instead,I'll drink my arrowroot, and goTo bed."

"It's idle to repine, I know;

I'll tell you what I'll do instead,

I'll drink my arrowroot, and go

To bed."

—C. S. C.

Letter M

Mygood and kind old friend Robert Baxter, who now rests from his labours, was, during his long active life in Westminster (dispensing law to the rich and sharing its profits with the poor), one of the most charitable and hospitable of men.

Occasionally, however, even his goodness was taxed with such severity, as to somewhat try his patience.

The once well-known Mrs. X—— of A——, a philanthropic but foolish old woman, arrived late one evening, uninvited, at his house in Queen's Square, suffering from the first symptoms of rheumatic fever. Calmly establishing herself in the best guest-chamber, and surrounded by the necessary maid, nurse, and doctor, she turned her kind host's dwelling into a private hospital for many weeks. When at last she reached the stage of convalescence, and was allowed to take daily outings and airings, Mr. Baxter's capital old butler, Sage, had the privilege of carrying the fair but weighty invalid downstairs to the carriage, and upstairs to her rooms once, and often twice, a day. No small effort for any man's strength, however athletic he might be, and Sage, be it conceded, was a moderate giant.

The weeks dragged themselves away, and at last the welcome date for a final flitting to her own home arrived. Sage felt that he had well earned an extraordinary douceur for all his labours, and was not therefore surprised when the good lady on leaving slipped into his willing hand a suggestive looking folded-up blue slip of paper instead of the more limited gold. Retiring to his pantry to satisfy his very natural curiosity as to the amount of the vail so fully deserved, his feelings may be imagined, but not described, when he found that instead of the expected cheque, it was what, in evangelical circles, is called a leaflet, bearing on its face the following appropriate and cheerful text: "Thou fool! this night thy soul shall be required of thee!"

Whilst upon the subject of misapplied texts, another instance, touchedwith a pleasant humour, occurs to me. Many years ago I visited for the first time an old friend and his wife in their pleasant country house. Upon being shown into what was evidently one of the best guest-chambers, I was intensely delighted to find over the mantelpiece the following framed text, in large illuminated letters: "Occupy till I come!" Unprepared to make so long a stay, I left on the Monday morning following, and have no doubt the generous invitation still remains to welcome the coming guest.

Another story of a like nature was told us by Mr. Anstey Guthrie, and is therefore worth repeating. He once saw a long procession of happy school-children going to some feast, headed by a band of music and a standard-bearer. The latter was staggering beneath an immense banner, on whichwas painted the Lion of Saint Mark's, rampant, with mouth, teeth, and claws ready and rapacious; underneath was the singularly appropriate and happy legend, "Suffer little children to come unto Me."

Another capital story from the same source, which time cannot wither, nor custom stale, is, that at some small English seaside resort a spirited and generous townsman has presented a number of free seats for the parade, each one adorned with an iron label stating that "Mr. Jones of this town presented these free seats for the public's use, the sea is his, and he made it."

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Book Room: 1st view

HeaderChat No. 7."Where are my friends? I am alone;No playmate shares my beaker:Some lie beneath the churchyard stone,And some—before the Speaker:And some compose a tragedy,And some compose a rondo;And some draw sword for Liberty,And some draw pleas for John Doe."—W. M. Praed.

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"Where are my friends? I am alone;No playmate shares my beaker:Some lie beneath the churchyard stone,And some—before the Speaker:And some compose a tragedy,And some compose a rondo;And some draw sword for Liberty,And some draw pleas for John Doe."

"Where are my friends? I am alone;

No playmate shares my beaker:

Some lie beneath the churchyard stone,

And some—before the Speaker:

And some compose a tragedy,

And some compose a rondo;

And some draw sword for Liberty,

And some draw pleas for John Doe."

—W. M. Praed.

"All analysis comes late."—Aurora Leigh.

Letter T

Thedifficulty which has existed since Lord Tennyson's dramatic death, of choosing a successor to the Laureateship, has partly arisen from the presence of so many minorpoets, and the absence, with one remarkable exception, of any monarch of song.

The exception is, of course, Mr. Swinburne, who stands alone as the greatest living master of English verse. The objections to his appointment may, in some eyes, have importance, but time has sobered his more erratic flights, leaving a large residuum of fine work, both in poetry and prose, which would make him a worthy successor to any of those gone before.

Of the smaller fry, it is difficult to prophesy which will hereafter come to the front, and what of their work may live.

As Oliver Wendell Holmes so pathetically says:—

"Deal gently with us, ye who read!Our largest hope is unfulfilled;The promise still outruns the deed;The tower, but not the spire we build.Our whitest pearl we never find;Our ripest fruit we never reach;The flowering moments of the mind,Lose half their petals in our speech."

"Deal gently with us, ye who read!Our largest hope is unfulfilled;The promise still outruns the deed;The tower, but not the spire we build.

"Deal gently with us, ye who read!

Our largest hope is unfulfilled;

The promise still outruns the deed;

The tower, but not the spire we build.

Our whitest pearl we never find;Our ripest fruit we never reach;The flowering moments of the mind,Lose half their petals in our speech."

Our whitest pearl we never find;

Our ripest fruit we never reach;

The flowering moments of the mind,

Lose half their petals in our speech."

The late Lord Lytton (Owen Meredith) was very unequal in all he produced. Perhaps the following ballad from his volume of "Selected Poems," published in 1894 by Longmans, is one of the best and most characteristic he has written:—

THE WOOD DEVIL.

"In the wood, where I wander'd astray,Came the Devil a-talking to me,O mother! mother!But why did ye tell me, and why did they say,That the Devil's a horrible blackamoor? HeBlack-faced and horrible? No, mother, no!And how should a poor girl be likely to knowThat the Devil's so gallant and gay, mother?So gentle and gallant and gay,With his curly head, and his comely face,And his cap and feather, and saucy grace,Mother! mother!

"In the wood, where I wander'd astray,

Came the Devil a-talking to me,

O mother! mother!

But why did ye tell me, and why did they say,

That the Devil's a horrible blackamoor? He

Black-faced and horrible? No, mother, no!

And how should a poor girl be likely to know

That the Devil's so gallant and gay, mother?

So gentle and gallant and gay,

With his curly head, and his comely face,

And his cap and feather, and saucy grace,

Mother! mother!

II.

And 'Pretty one, whither away?And shall I come with you?' said he.O mother! mother!And so winsome he was, not a word could I say,And he kiss'd me, and sweet were his kisses to me,And he kiss'd me, and kiss'd till I kiss'd him again,And O, not till he left me I knew to my pain'Twas the Devil that led me astray, mother!The Devil so gallant and gay,With his curly head, and his comely face,And his cap and feather, and saucy grace,Mother! mother!"

And 'Pretty one, whither away?

And shall I come with you?' said he.

O mother! mother!

And so winsome he was, not a word could I say,

And he kiss'd me, and sweet were his kisses to me,

And he kiss'd me, and kiss'd till I kiss'd him again,

And O, not till he left me I knew to my pain

'Twas the Devil that led me astray, mother!

The Devil so gallant and gay,

With his curly head, and his comely face,

And his cap and feather, and saucy grace,

Mother! mother!"

Mr. Edmund Gosse's work is always scholarly and well thought out, framed in easy, pleasant English. In some of his poems he reminds one of the "Autocrat of the Breakfast Table." His song of the "Wounded Gull" is very like Dr. Holmes, both in subject and treatment:—

"The children laughed, and called it tame!But ah! one dark and shrivell'd wingHung by its side; the gull was lame,A suffering and deserted thing.With painful care it downward crept;Its eye was on the rolling sea;Close to our very feet, it steptUpon the wave, and then—was free.Right out into the east it wentToo proud, we thought, to flap or shriek;Slowly it steered, in wondermentTo find its enemies so meek.Calmly it steered, and mortal dreadDisturbed nor crest nor glossy plume;It could but die, and being dead,The open sea should be its tomb.We watched it till we saw it floatAlmost beyond our furthest view;It flickered like a paper boat,Then faded in the dazzling blue.It could but touch an English heartTo find an English bird so brave;Our life-blood glowed to see it startThus boldly on the leaguered wave."

"The children laughed, and called it tame!But ah! one dark and shrivell'd wingHung by its side; the gull was lame,A suffering and deserted thing.

"The children laughed, and called it tame!

But ah! one dark and shrivell'd wing

Hung by its side; the gull was lame,

A suffering and deserted thing.

With painful care it downward crept;Its eye was on the rolling sea;Close to our very feet, it steptUpon the wave, and then—was free.

With painful care it downward crept;

Its eye was on the rolling sea;

Close to our very feet, it stept

Upon the wave, and then—was free.

Right out into the east it wentToo proud, we thought, to flap or shriek;Slowly it steered, in wondermentTo find its enemies so meek.

Right out into the east it went

Too proud, we thought, to flap or shriek;

Slowly it steered, in wonderment

To find its enemies so meek.

Calmly it steered, and mortal dreadDisturbed nor crest nor glossy plume;It could but die, and being dead,The open sea should be its tomb.

Calmly it steered, and mortal dread

Disturbed nor crest nor glossy plume;

It could but die, and being dead,

The open sea should be its tomb.

We watched it till we saw it floatAlmost beyond our furthest view;It flickered like a paper boat,Then faded in the dazzling blue.

We watched it till we saw it float

Almost beyond our furthest view;

It flickered like a paper boat,

Then faded in the dazzling blue.

It could but touch an English heartTo find an English bird so brave;Our life-blood glowed to see it startThus boldly on the leaguered wave."

It could but touch an English heart

To find an English bird so brave;

Our life-blood glowed to see it start

Thus boldly on the leaguered wave."

A few fortunate persons possess copies of Mr. Gosse's catalogue of his library, and it is, I rejoice to say, on the Foxwold shelves. It is a most charming work, reflecting on every page, by many subtle touches, the refined humour andwide knowledge of the collector. Mr. Austin Dobson wrote for the final fly-leaf as follows:—

"I doubt your painful Pedants whoCan read a dictionary through;But he must be a dismal dog,Who can't enjoy this Catalogue!"

"I doubt your painful Pedants who

Can read a dictionary through;

But he must be a dismal dog,

Who can't enjoy this Catalogue!"

Of the little mutual admiration and log-rolling society, whose headquarters are in Vigo Street, no serious account need be taken. Time will deal with these very minor poets, and whether kindly or not, Time will prove. They may possibly be able to await the verdict with a serene and confident patience—and so can we. An exception may perhaps be made for some of Mr. Arthur Symon's "Silhouettes," as the following extract will show:—

"Emmy's exquisite youth and her virginal air,Eyes and teeth in the flash of a musical smile,Come to me out of the past, and I see her thereAs I saw her once for a while.Emmy's laughter rings in my ears, as bright,Fresh and sweet as the voice of a mountain brook,And still I hear her telling us tales that night,Out of Boccaccio's book.There, in the midst of the villainous dancing-hall,Leaning across the table, over the beer,While the music maddened the whirling skirts of the ball,As the midnight hour drew near.There with the women, haggard, painted, and old,One fresh bud in a garland withered and stale,She, with her innocent voice and her clear eyes, toldTale after shameless tale.And ever the witching smile, to her face beguiled,Paused and broadened, and broke in a ripple of fun,And the soul of a child looked out of the eyes of a child,Or ever the tale was done.O my child, who wronged you first, and beganFirst the dance of death that you dance so well?Soul for soul: and I think the soul of a manShall answer for yours in hell."

"Emmy's exquisite youth and her virginal air,Eyes and teeth in the flash of a musical smile,Come to me out of the past, and I see her thereAs I saw her once for a while.

"Emmy's exquisite youth and her virginal air,

Eyes and teeth in the flash of a musical smile,

Come to me out of the past, and I see her there

As I saw her once for a while.

Emmy's laughter rings in my ears, as bright,Fresh and sweet as the voice of a mountain brook,And still I hear her telling us tales that night,Out of Boccaccio's book.

Emmy's laughter rings in my ears, as bright,

Fresh and sweet as the voice of a mountain brook,

And still I hear her telling us tales that night,

Out of Boccaccio's book.

There, in the midst of the villainous dancing-hall,Leaning across the table, over the beer,While the music maddened the whirling skirts of the ball,As the midnight hour drew near.

There, in the midst of the villainous dancing-hall,

Leaning across the table, over the beer,

While the music maddened the whirling skirts of the ball,

As the midnight hour drew near.

There with the women, haggard, painted, and old,One fresh bud in a garland withered and stale,She, with her innocent voice and her clear eyes, toldTale after shameless tale.

There with the women, haggard, painted, and old,

One fresh bud in a garland withered and stale,

She, with her innocent voice and her clear eyes, told

Tale after shameless tale.

And ever the witching smile, to her face beguiled,Paused and broadened, and broke in a ripple of fun,And the soul of a child looked out of the eyes of a child,Or ever the tale was done.

And ever the witching smile, to her face beguiled,

Paused and broadened, and broke in a ripple of fun,

And the soul of a child looked out of the eyes of a child,

Or ever the tale was done.

O my child, who wronged you first, and beganFirst the dance of death that you dance so well?Soul for soul: and I think the soul of a manShall answer for yours in hell."

O my child, who wronged you first, and began

First the dance of death that you dance so well?

Soul for soul: and I think the soul of a man

Shall answer for yours in hell."

Mr. Austin Dobson and the late Mr. Locker-Lampson are perhaps the finestwriters ofvers de Sociétésince Praed; whilst in the broader school of humour C. S. Calverley, Mr. Dodgson (of "Alice in Wonderland" fame), and the late James Kenneth Stephen, stand alone and unchallenged; and Mr. Watson, if health serve, will go far; and so with some pathetic words of one of these moderns we will end this somewhat aimless chat:—

"My heart is dashed with cares and fears,My song comes fluttering and is gone;Oh, high above this home of tears,Eternal joy,—sing on."

"My heart is dashed with cares and fears,

My song comes fluttering and is gone;

Oh, high above this home of tears,

Eternal joy,—sing on."

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HeaderChat No. 8."Punch! in the presence of the passengers."

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"Punch! in the presence of the passengers."

Letter W

Withinthe past year certain gentle disputes and friendly discussions as to the origin ofPunch, and who its first real editor was, and whether or no Henry Mayhew evolved it with the help of suitable friends in a debtor's prison, remind us that Foxwold possesses some rather curious "memories" of this famous paper.

These disputes should now be put to rest for ever by Mr. Spielmann'sexhaustive "History of Mr. Punch," which, it may safely be supposed, appeared with some sort of authority from "Mr. Punch" himself.

One of our "Odds and Ends" is a kit-kat portrait in oil of Horace Mayhew, "Ponny," excellent both as a likeness and a work of art, which should eventually find hanging space in the celebratedPunchdining-room. There is also a pencil drawing of him, in which "the Count," as he was called, is dressed in the smartest fashion of that day, and crowned with a D'Orsay hat, resplendent, original, and gay.

He made a rather unhappy marriage late in his life, and found that habits from which he was not personally free showed themselves rather frequently in his wife's conduct. One day, in a state of emotion and whisky and water, he pressed Mark Lemon's hand, and, burstinginto tears, murmured, "My dear friend, she drinks! she drinks!!" "All right," was the editor's cheery reply, "my dear boy; cheer up, so do you!"

Near by hangs a characteristic pencil sketch of Douglas Jerrold, who, if small, was no hunchback (as has been lately stated), but was a very neatly made, active little man, with a grand head covered with a profusion of lightish hair, which he had a trick of throwing back, like a lion's mane, and a pair of bright piercing blue eyes. There is an engraving of a bust of him prefixed to his life (written by his son, Blanchard Jerrold), which well conveys the nobility of the well-set head. Then comes a capital drawing of Kenny Meadows in profile, and a thoroughly characteristic Irish phiz it is.

These pencil portraits are all from the gifted hand of Mr. George AugustusSala, and formerly belonged to Horace Mayhew himself. Mr. Sala, as is now well known by means of his autobiography, was once an artist and book-illustrator, and Foxwold is the proud possessor of the only picture in oil extant from his brush. It is called "Saturday Night in a Gin-Palace": it is full of a Hogarthian power, and by its execution, drawing, and colour shows that had Mr. Sala made painting his profession instead of literature, he would have gone far and fared well. The little picture is signed "G. A. Sala," and was found many years ago in an old house in Brompton, when the present owner secured it for a moderate sum, and then wrote to Mr. Sala asking if the picture was authentic. A reply was received by the next post, in the beautiful handwriting for which he is famous, and runs as follows:—-

46 Mecklenburgh Square, W.C.,Tuesday, Twenty-fifth June 1878.Dear Sir,I beg to acknowledge receipt of your courteous and (to me) singularly interesting note."Yes, the little old oil-picture of the 'Gin-Palace Bar' is mine sure enough. I can remember it as distinctly as though it had been painted yesterday. Great casks of liquor in the background; little stunted figures (including one of a dustman with a shovel) in the foreground. Details executed with laborious niggling minuteness; but the whole work must be now dingy and faded to almost total obscuration, since I remember that in painting it I only used turpentine for a medium, the spirit of which must have long since 'flown,' and left the pigment flat or 'scaly.'"The thing was done in Paris six-and-twenty years ago (Ap. 1852), and being brought to London, was sold to the late Adolphus Ackermann, of the bygone art-publishing firm of Ackermann & Co., 96 Strand (premises now occupied by E. Rimmel, the perfumer), for the sum of fivepounds. I hope that you did not give more than a few shillings for it, for it was a vile little daub. I was at the time when I produced it an engraver and lithographer, and I believe that Mr. Ackermann only purchased the picture with a view to encourage me to 'take up' oil-painting. But I did not do so. I 'took up' literature instead, and a pretty market I have brought my pigs to! At all events,youpossess the only picture in oil extant from the brush ofYours very faithfully,George Augustus Sala."ToH. N. Pym, Esq.

46 Mecklenburgh Square, W.C.,

Tuesday, Twenty-fifth June 1878.

Dear Sir,

I beg to acknowledge receipt of your courteous and (to me) singularly interesting note.

"Yes, the little old oil-picture of the 'Gin-Palace Bar' is mine sure enough. I can remember it as distinctly as though it had been painted yesterday. Great casks of liquor in the background; little stunted figures (including one of a dustman with a shovel) in the foreground. Details executed with laborious niggling minuteness; but the whole work must be now dingy and faded to almost total obscuration, since I remember that in painting it I only used turpentine for a medium, the spirit of which must have long since 'flown,' and left the pigment flat or 'scaly.'

"The thing was done in Paris six-and-twenty years ago (Ap. 1852), and being brought to London, was sold to the late Adolphus Ackermann, of the bygone art-publishing firm of Ackermann & Co., 96 Strand (premises now occupied by E. Rimmel, the perfumer), for the sum of fivepounds. I hope that you did not give more than a few shillings for it, for it was a vile little daub. I was at the time when I produced it an engraver and lithographer, and I believe that Mr. Ackermann only purchased the picture with a view to encourage me to 'take up' oil-painting. But I did not do so. I 'took up' literature instead, and a pretty market I have brought my pigs to! At all events,youpossess the only picture in oil extant from the brush of

Yours very faithfully,

George Augustus Sala."

ToH. N. Pym, Esq.

When Mr. Sala afterwards called to see the picture, he altered his mind as to its being "a vile little daub," and found the colours as fresh and bright as when painted. We greatly value it, if only as the cause of a lasting friendship it started with the artist.

His own portrait by Vernet, in pen and ink, now graces our little gallery;it is a back view, taken amidst his books, and a most characteristic and excellent likeness of this accomplished and versatile gentleman.[1]

One of our guest-chambers is solemnly dedicated to the honour and glory of "Mr. Punch," and on its walls hang some original oil sketches by John Leech, drawings by Charles Keene, Mr. Harry Furniss, Randolph Caldecote, Mr. Bernard Partridge, Mr. Anstey Guthrie, and Mr. Du Maurier; whilst kindly caricatures of some of the staff, and a print of the celebrated dinner-table, signed by the contributors, complete the decoration of a very cheery little room.

[1]Whilst these pages are passing through the press, George Augustus Sala has been mercifully permitted to rest from his labours. An unfortunate adventure with a new paper brought about serious troubles, physical and financial, and ended his useful and hard-working life in gloom: as Mr. Bancroft (a mutual friend) observed to the editor of this volume, "It is so sad when the autumn of such a life is tempestuous."--December 8, 1895.

HeaderChat No. 9."Then be contented. Thou hast gotThe most of heaven in thy young lot;There's sky-blue in thy cup!Thou'lt find thy Manhood all too fast—-Soon come, soon gone! and Age at last,A sorry breaking-up."—-Thomas Hood.

Header

"Then be contented. Thou hast gotThe most of heaven in thy young lot;There's sky-blue in thy cup!Thou'lt find thy Manhood all too fast—-Soon come, soon gone! and Age at last,A sorry breaking-up."

"Then be contented. Thou hast got

The most of heaven in thy young lot;

There's sky-blue in thy cup!

Thou'lt find thy Manhood all too fast—-

Soon come, soon gone! and Age at last,

A sorry breaking-up."

—-Thomas Hood.

Letter I

Itwas my good fortune some short time since to revisit that most educational of English towns, Bedford, and having many years ago had the extreme privilege of being a Bedford schoolboy, I was able to draw a comparison between then and now.

In the good old days these admirableschools were managed in the good old way—plenty of classics, plenty of swishing, plenty of cricket and boating, and plenty of holidays. We sometimes turned out boys who afterwards made their mark in the big world, and the School Registers are proud to contain the names of such men as Burnell, the Oriental scholar, who out-knowledged even Sir William Jones in this respect; Colonel Fred. Burnaby, brave soldier and attractive travel writer; Inverarity, the lion-hunter and crack shot; Sir Henry Hawkins, stern judge and brilliant wit, and many others of like degree. Nor must we forgot that John Bunyan here learnt sufficient reading and writing to enable him in after years to pen his marvellous Book during his imprisonment in Bedford Gaol, which was then situated midway on the bridge over the river Ouse.

In that wonderful monument to the courage and enterprise of Mr. George Smith (kindest of friends and best of publishers), "The National Dictionary of Biography," the record is frequent of men who owed their education and perhaps best chance in the life they afterwards made a success, to Bedford School, but,—

"Long hushed are the chords that my boyhood enchanted,As when the smooth wave by the angel was stirred,Yet still with their music is memory haunted,And oft in my dreams are their melodies heard."

"Long hushed are the chords that my boyhood enchanted,

As when the smooth wave by the angel was stirred,

Yet still with their music is memory haunted,

And oft in my dreams are their melodies heard."

But if the good old School was a success in those bygone days, what must be said for it now, when, under the Napoleon-like administration of its present chief, the school-house has been rebuilt in its own park, upon all the best and latest known principles of comfort and sanitation, where a boycan, besides going through the full round of usual study, follow the bent of his own peculiar taste, and find special training, whether it be in horse-shoeing or music, chemistry or wood-carving, ambulance work or drawing from the figure; whilst the beautiful river is covered with boats, the cricket-fields and football yards are crowded, and the bathing stations are a constant joy?

Truly the present generation of Bedford boys are much blessed in their surroundings; and whilst they remember with gratitude the pious founder, Sir William Harper, should strive to do credit to his name and memory by the exercise of their powers in the battle of after-life, having received so thorough and broad-minded a training in the happy and receptive days of their youth.

Bedford town is now one of the most strikingly attractive in England, with its fine river embankment, its grand old churches, its statues erected to the memory of the "inspired tinker," Bunyan, and the prison philanthropist, Howard, both of whom lived about a mile or so from the town, the former at Elstow, the latter at Cardington. It was very good and heart-restoring to revisit the hospitable old school with its pleasant surroundings and to find, as Robert Louis Stevenson says, that,—

"Home from the Indies, and home from the ocean,Heroes and soldiers they all shall come home;Still they shall find the old mill-wheel in motion,Turning and churning that river to foam."

"Home from the Indies, and home from the ocean,

Heroes and soldiers they all shall come home;

Still they shall find the old mill-wheel in motion,

Turning and churning that river to foam."

Since printing our last little "Tour Round the Bookshelves," in which we ventured to include some capital lines by our evergreen and many-sidedfriend Rudolf Chambers Lehmann, he has again added to the interest of our Visitors' Book under the following circumstances. Guests and home-birds were all resting after the exhausting idleness of an Easter holiday when they were suddenly aroused from their day-dreams by loud cries of "Fire!" accompanied by the sound of horses and chariots approaching the house at full speed. On looking out, like Sister Anne or a pretty page, we were able to assuage our guests' natural alarm by explaining that the local fire brigade were practising upon our vile bodies and dwelling, and if fear existed, danger did not. On their ultimately retiring, satisfied with their mock efforts, and fortified by beer, our welcome guest wrote with his usual flying pen the following characteristic lines to commemorate their visit:—

"FIRE! FIRE!!"

(AN EASTER MONDAY INCIDENT.)

"A day of days, an April day;Cool air without, and cloudless sun;Within, upon the ordered tray,Cakes, and the luscious Sally-Lunn.Since Pym has walked, and Guthrie climbedTo rob some feathered songster's nest,Their toil needs tea, the hour has chimed—Pour, lady, pour, and let them rest.But hark! what sound disturbs their tea,And clatters up the carriage drive?A dinner guest? it cannot be;No, no, the hour is only five.What sight is this the fates disclose,That breaks upon our startled view?Two horses, countless yards of hose,Nine firemen, and an engine too.Where burns the fire? Tush, 'tis but sport;The horses stop, the men descend,Take hoses long, and hoses short,And fit them deftly end to end.Attention! lo their chieftain calls—They run, they answer to their names,And hypothetic water fallsIn streams upon imagined flames.Well done, ye braves, 'twas nobly done;Accept, the peril past, our thanks;Though all your toil was only fun,And air was all that filled your tanks:No, not for nought you came and dared,Return in peace, and drink your fill;It was, as Mrs. Pym declared,'A highly interesting drill.'"

"A day of days, an April day;

Cool air without, and cloudless sun;

Within, upon the ordered tray,

Cakes, and the luscious Sally-Lunn.

Since Pym has walked, and Guthrie climbed

To rob some feathered songster's nest,

Their toil needs tea, the hour has chimed—

Pour, lady, pour, and let them rest.

But hark! what sound disturbs their tea,And clatters up the carriage drive?A dinner guest? it cannot be;No, no, the hour is only five.What sight is this the fates disclose,That breaks upon our startled view?Two horses, countless yards of hose,Nine firemen, and an engine too.

But hark! what sound disturbs their tea,

And clatters up the carriage drive?

A dinner guest? it cannot be;

No, no, the hour is only five.

What sight is this the fates disclose,

That breaks upon our startled view?

Two horses, countless yards of hose,

Nine firemen, and an engine too.

Where burns the fire? Tush, 'tis but sport;The horses stop, the men descend,Take hoses long, and hoses short,And fit them deftly end to end.Attention! lo their chieftain calls—They run, they answer to their names,And hypothetic water fallsIn streams upon imagined flames.

Where burns the fire? Tush, 'tis but sport;

The horses stop, the men descend,

Take hoses long, and hoses short,

And fit them deftly end to end.

Attention! lo their chieftain calls—

They run, they answer to their names,

And hypothetic water falls

In streams upon imagined flames.

Well done, ye braves, 'twas nobly done;Accept, the peril past, our thanks;Though all your toil was only fun,And air was all that filled your tanks:No, not for nought you came and dared,Return in peace, and drink your fill;It was, as Mrs. Pym declared,'A highly interesting drill.'"

Well done, ye braves, 'twas nobly done;

Accept, the peril past, our thanks;

Though all your toil was only fun,

And air was all that filled your tanks:

No, not for nought you came and dared,

Return in peace, and drink your fill;

It was, as Mrs. Pym declared,

'A highly interesting drill.'"

April 3, 1893.

Another poet whose pen sometimes gilds our modest Record of Angels' Visits, is a well-beloved cousin, Harry Luxmoore by name, at Eton known so well. His Christmas greeting for 1890 shall here appear, and prove to him how deep is Foxwold's affectionate obligation for wishes so delightfully expressed:—

"Glooms overhead a frozen sky,Rings underfoot a snow-ribbed earth,Yet somewhere slumbering sunbeams lie,And somewhere sleeps the coming birth.Folded in root and grain is lying,The bud, the bloom we soon may see,And in the old year now a-dyingIs hid the new year that shall be.O what if snows be deep? so shroudedMatures the soil with promise rifeAnd sap, for all the skies be clouded,Ripens at heart a lustier life.Then welcome winter—while we shiverStrength harbours deeper, and the blastOf sounder, manlier force the giverStrips off betimes our withered past.Come bud and bloom, come fruit and flower,Come weal, come woe, as best may be,Still may the New Year's hidden dowerBe good for you and Horace, and all the little ones, and good for me."

"Glooms overhead a frozen sky,Rings underfoot a snow-ribbed earth,Yet somewhere slumbering sunbeams lie,And somewhere sleeps the coming birth.

"Glooms overhead a frozen sky,

Rings underfoot a snow-ribbed earth,

Yet somewhere slumbering sunbeams lie,

And somewhere sleeps the coming birth.

Folded in root and grain is lying,The bud, the bloom we soon may see,And in the old year now a-dyingIs hid the new year that shall be.

Folded in root and grain is lying,

The bud, the bloom we soon may see,

And in the old year now a-dying

Is hid the new year that shall be.

O what if snows be deep? so shroudedMatures the soil with promise rifeAnd sap, for all the skies be clouded,Ripens at heart a lustier life.

O what if snows be deep? so shrouded

Matures the soil with promise rife

And sap, for all the skies be clouded,

Ripens at heart a lustier life.

Then welcome winter—while we shiverStrength harbours deeper, and the blastOf sounder, manlier force the giverStrips off betimes our withered past.

Then welcome winter—while we shiver

Strength harbours deeper, and the blast

Of sounder, manlier force the giver

Strips off betimes our withered past.

Come bud and bloom, come fruit and flower,Come weal, come woe, as best may be,Still may the New Year's hidden dowerBe good for you and Horace, and all the little ones, and good for me."

Come bud and bloom, come fruit and flower,

Come weal, come woe, as best may be,

Still may the New Year's hidden dower

Be good for you and Horace, and all the little ones, and good for me."

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