Chapter 7 EDITOR OF THE LEEDS MERCURY.

Forming Good Resolutions-Provincial Journalism in the 'Seventies-

Recollections of the Franco-German War-The Loss of the Captain

and its Consequences to me-Settling Down at Leeds-Acquaintance with

Monckton Milnes-Visits to Fryston-Lord Houghton's Chivalry-His

Talk-His Skill in Judging Men-Stories about George Venables-Lord

Houghton's Regard for Religious Observances.

In April, 1870, there came to me most unexpectedly the offer of the editorship of the Leeds Mercury. It came, as readers of the preceding pages know, at a time when my whole life was unsettled by the bereavement which had made me a lonely, restless man. It was, I need hardly say, an offer of a very tempting character. After little more than two years of the life of a journalist in London, the prospect was held out to me of a recognised position on the Press as chief of one of the principal provincial dailies. The position meant increased remuneration, freedom from the anxieties of miscellaneous work, and the possession of influence of no ordinary kind. All my friends and relatives urged upon me the madness of refusing such an offer, especially since it had come to me unsought and at an unusually early age. Yet for a time I was more inclined to refuse than to accept the proposal. I loved London, and the freedom of its literary life, and I knew by experience how sharp was the contrast between the social life of the capital and that of a provincial town like Leeds. Besides, London drew my sympathies more strongly than ever as the scene of those short years of married happiness which had now come to an end. So, for a time, I wavered as to the acceptance of the new position offered to me, and it was only under the sharp pressure of friends and relatives that I at last wrote to my old friend, Mr. Frederick Baines, and accepted the editorship of the Mercury.

No one not a member of the Baines family had edited the journal since it became the property of the first Edward Baines, so that it was a new departure in more respects than one that the proprietors were making in placing the editorship in my hands. The cause of the vacancy which I undertook to fill was a rather curious one. Mr. Tom Baines, who had been editor since his father, Edward Baines, entered Parliament, had become an adherent of the religious body known as Plymouth Brethren. A man of culture, of fine ability, and of high character, he had deliberately associated himself with a sect which regarded the affairs of the world as being outside the scope of a Christian's duties. He found it impossible to combine attention to the many questions of politics and public business that must engage the thoughts of a newspaper editor, with the Bible readings and sermons upon spiritual truth to which he specially desired to devote himself. It was a sore trouble to his excellent father when Mr. Tom Baines decided that the life of a journalist and that of a Plymouth Brother were not consistent; but, with that noble respect for all conscientious convictions which distinguished Edward Baines both in public and in private, he bowed to his son's decision, and regretfully acquiesced in his retirement from a post that he had filled with eminent distinction.

So it came about that on May 15th, 1870, I found myself in the train on my road to Leeds to take charge of the duties of the important post to which I had been called. I do not think that I had any conception at that time of the real importance of that post, or of the heavy responsibilities attaching to it. I was barely eight-and-twenty, and hitherto the bent of my inclination had been towards literature rather than political journalism. The ideal life, I thought, was that of a successful writer of fiction. Though a sincere and convinced Liberal, I had always possessed an unfortunate capacity for seeing the defects and blunders of my own party, and I had a strong distaste for the doctrine which finds expression in the phrase, "My party, right or wrong." Besides, I was then, as I still am, strongly attracted towards different personalities. There were men on the Conservative side of the House of Commons whom I regarded with deep respect and esteem. There were others, sitting on the Liberal benches, whom I held in something like contempt. Upon the whole, therefore, I did not feel so much attracted by the responsible editorship of a great political journal as might have been expected, and it was with considerable trepidation, and many doubts as to my own capacity, that I made that fateful journey to Leeds. I remember distinctly the current of my thoughts as the train flew northwards. The death of my wife had sobered me, and all youthful levity seemed to have been buried in her grave. I spent the four hours of the railway journey in making good resolutions as to my conduct in my new position.

The resolution which impressed itself most forcibly upon my mind was a determination not to make any enemies. I could honestly say that I had made none so far in the course of my life. If my circle of acquaintances was but a narrow one, it consisted wholly of persons who were truly my friends. In my innocence I believed that in the public position I was about to take this pleasant condition of things might be continued. I would be fair, just, and courteous to everybody, I resolved; and thus I should pass through life as one of those fortunate men who enjoy everyone's goodwill. I can smile now as I recall the speedy shattering of that illusion which awaited me at Leeds; but I well remember the almost tragical sense of surprise and disappointment which I felt when I first found that in honestly doing what I conceived to be my duty, in a public matter with which I had to deal, I had most unexpectedly made a personal enemy. Speaking now with long years of experience behind me, I may be allowed to bear my testimony to the fact that it is impossible for a public man in this country to deal honestly with the many controversial questions that politicians have to handle without finding that, in the course of his life, he must of necessity make some enemies. Human nature being what it is, it seems impossible for a man to take a clear and independent line on great questions without at times giving offence to others, who may be just as honest and conscientious as himself. It would, of course, be ridiculous to say that the test of a man's worth as a politician, whether in Parliament or the editorial chair, is the number of his enemies; but I am convinced that a public man who has absolutely no enemies must be a person who has deliberately shirked his duties and stifled his conscience.

My first step on entering on my duties as editor of the Mercury was to make a complete change in the editor's hours. My predecessor had been in the habit of writing his leader in the middle of the day, and it was very seldom that he was to be seen in the office after four o'clock in the afternoon. In common with all, or nearly all, the editors of the provincial dailies of his time, he never attempted to write upon late news. It was the fashion then for the provincial editor to wait until he had ascertained the opinions of the London daily papers upon current questions before he ventured to express his own. It was a delightful system so far as the ease and comfort of the provincial editor were concerned. To be able to finish the labours of the day in the early hours of the afternoon was an ideal state of things from the personal point of view. Fortunately I did not yield to the temptation to continue the old, easygoing régime. My experience in London had made me acquainted with the interiors of the offices of more than one of the daily newspapers, and I was no longer oppressed with a provincial reverence for London editors as beings who dwelt apart. I saw no reason why I should not express my own views upon the questions with which I had to deal, instead of waiting to pen a mere reflection of the views of other persons. So, almost from the first day of my editorship, I went to the office late, and wrote upon some subject that was absolutely fresh. Barely three weeks had passed before I was able to make a distinct impression upon the readers of the Mercury as a result of this changed system.

It was on the night of June 9th, 1870. I had finished my leader for the next morning's paper, and was just preparing to leave the office, when a telegram was brought to me with the sad announcement of the death of Charles Dickens. My old leader was instantly thrown aside, and, sitting down, I wrote out of a full heart of the irreparable loss which English literature and the Englishmen of that generation had suffered. No matter what the faults of the article might be, it made a great impression upon the readers of the Mercury next morning, for the death of Dickens was one of those events that touch the heart of the nation, and everybody was anxious to read any comments upon it. The impression made by my article was deepened by the fact that no other provincial paper had commented upon the absorbing topic. From that moment I seemed to have gained the ear of my readers, and Leeds, which, not unnaturally, had taken coldly to me in the first instance, began to open its heart and extend its sympathies to the new and unknown editor. All this sounds like sheer egotism; but as to the fact that, with my editorship of the Mercury, the practice of writing upon the latest topics in the provincial daily press first became general, there can be no dispute, and as it is a fact of interest in the history of the Press, I have dwelt upon it at this length.

Very soon the attention of newspaper readers all over the world was absorbed by one engrossing topic-the great war between France and Germany. The experiences of an editor during those exciting days were not uninteresting. There have been no such days since in my recollection. In the first instance, when the clouds were gathering with startling suddenness, few persons in this country believed that war was possible. It was incredible, they held, that two civilised nations should fight over such a question as the candidature for the Spanish throne. All the orthodox authorities were furiously angry with those journals that pointed out the real dangers of the situation, and the difficulty of arresting two great nations like France and Prussia when they had once begun to approach each other with the language of menace. One day Mr. Frederick Baines brought into my room one of the most influential citizens of Leeds. His purpose in calling was to protest against the alarmist tone of the articles in the Mercury, and nothing could have been better than the imposing air of authority with which he informed me that he knew for a fact that neither the members of the English Government nor any other well-informed persons looked upon a war as being even remotely possible. I felt very uncomfortable, and somewhat overweighted by the air of my visitor. I could see, too, that Mr. Frederick Baines, though thoroughly loyal to me, was also impressed by his friend's statement. But in spite of the high authority on which this gentleman spoke, just three days later war was declared.

Never in my time has the world looked on at a drama at once so stupendous and so enthralling in its excitement as that of the Franco-German War. We have had wars since then which have affected this country more nearly, and have, of course, stirred deeper emotions in our breasts, than this war between France and Germany; but as a dramatic spectacle on which, thank God, we Englishmen could look as spectators merely, this great struggle was unsurpassed and unapproached. The march of events was so swift, the surprises were so great and numerous, the field of operations was so near and so familiar, and the political upheaval so terrible and so complete, that we onlookers were kept in a state of perpetual, almost breathless, suspense whilst the struggle lasted.

Of course, the newspapers were full of the war from the moment of its breaking out. The arrangements for special correspondents and news from the front were more complete than they had ever been before, and as the astounding drama swiftly advanced from the trivial overture at Saarbruck to the overwhelming catastrophe at Sedan, the civilised world had eyes and ears for nothing else. Barely seven weeks elapsed between the declaration of war and the surrender of the Emperor and the fall of his empire. During those seven weeks, public opinion in this country seemed to be equally divided between the two belligerents; but after the collapse of the Imperial army and the fall of the empire, the balance swung round in favour of France. That wholesome human sentiment which leads most men to take sides with the weak against the strong acted upon us, and drew our sympathies to unhappy France. The French have never given us credit for this fact, but have continually reproached us for not having espoused their side in a quarrel with which we had absolutely no concern. On the other hand, the Germans have never openly resented our sympathy with France in her day of immeasurable misfortune. I do not think, however, that they have forgotten it.

It was after Sedan, when it became evident that Paris was about to be invested by the victorious troops, that the war entered upon a new phase. At first nobody believed in a possible siege of Paris, any more than people now believe in a possible siege of London. I remember one of the sub-editors of the Leeds Mercury, who happened to take the Prussian side in the quarrel, bursting into my room one day in a furious passion to denounce the conduct of those wretched Frenchmen, who were positively cutting down the woods outside the city barriers in order to prevent their affording shelter to the enemy. My friend had once visited Paris, and had been struck by the beauty of these woods. Apparently he thought that, even for their own salvation, the French had no right to disfigure scenes of beauty that had delighted the eyes of sentimental tourists.

The newspapers, when it became evident that the siege of Paris was, after all, destined to take place, had to adopt measures to secure correspondents who were prepared to endure the hardships of that siege in order to furnish information to the British public. The most famous of these correspondents was Mr. Labouchere, who furnished the Daily News with the most entertaining journal of a siege ever written by a besieged resident. On behalf of the Leeds Mercury I engaged the services of another well-known journalist to act as our representative during the siege. This gentleman very naturally required a considerable sum of money in advance for his maintenance during the investment. He had written one or two admirable letters in anticipation of the siege, and I cheerfully sent him the amount for which he asked. He received it just before the Prussian lines closed round Paris, and I do not remember that I ever heard from him again. The letters which it is to be presumed he wrote to the Leeds Mercury never reached that journal.

When the investment began, and Paris was cut off from the outer world, we onlookers with the strip of sea between had certain visible signs of the reality of the siege offered to us in our very midst. The front page of the Times furnished one of these signs. Day after day, for weeks at a stretch, the whole of that page was occupied by messages from the French outside Paris to their friends and relatives within the walls. At first English readers were puzzled by this phenomenon. The investment of the city was very strict, and it was difficult to understand how the newspaper could be smuggled inside the barriers; but presently the truth was made known. This page of the Times was part of the machinery of the famous pigeon post which connected the outside world with Paris during its long beleaguerment. The page was photographed on a microscopic scale. The film on which the photograph was printed was carried into Paris by a pigeon, a magic-lantern was used to enlarge the photograph, and the messages it contained were copied by Post Office officials, and forwarded to their different destinations. Such a postal service was, I imagine, unique. It was certainly most ingenious.

Another sign of the siege of Paris was presented during those bright autumn days by the appearance of Piccadilly, especially on a Sunday afternoon. I generally spent Sunday in London, and during that autumn, when walking on a Sunday in Piccadilly, I noticed more than once that the majority of the well-dressed persons promenading on the northern side of the street were Frenchmen-most of them wearing the ribbon of the Legion of Honour. They were chiefly Imperialists, for whom there was no place in France under the new régime, and they had flocked to London literally in thousands, so that the great West End thoroughfare resounded at times with the French tongue.

One feature of that autumn was the unwonted magnificence of the displays of the aurora borealis. I never saw such fine auroras before or since. Night after night the sky was lighted up by the brilliantly coloured shafts of quivering flame. It is hardly surprising that the vulgar should have associated the phenomenon with the wonderful tragedy which was being enacted so near to our shores. The most ignorant, however, did not regard it as an omen. They honestly believed that they saw in the heavens the reflection of the glare from burning Paris.

I did not settle down to my editorial work in Leeds easily. Everything drew me back to London, and I told the proprietors of the Mercury that I did not mean to retain my post after the war came to an end. But at this point a fresh piece of good fortune came to me, though it arose out of a deplorable calamity. The Captain, the experimental vessel built by Captain Cowper Coles on designs that many high naval authorities had declared to be dangerously unsound, capsized in the Bay of Biscay, and sank with nearly every soul on board, including her designer, Captain Coles himself. There had been a great newspaper discussion about the Captain, and the Times had taken a vigorous part in it against the Admiralty authorities and in favour of Captain Coles. On the morning on which the news of the disaster was announced, the Times in its leading article maintained that the catastrophe was in no sense due to the instability of the ship, and urged that another Captain should be forthwith built. The Leeds Mercury, on the other hand, took what I regarded as the commonsense view, and insisted that for the future the opinions of the trained experts of the Admiralty should be preferred to those of irresponsible enthusiasts, even though they happened to be, like Captain Cowper Coles, men of genius.

Mr. Edward Baines, like most old journalists, had a profound respect for the wisdom of the Times, and he was very much disturbed when he found that the Leeds Mercury took a directly opposite view of the disaster to that of "the leading journal." He expressed to me, in his usual friendly and courteous manner, his regret that I had expressed myself so strongly, and evidently felt that what the Times said must be true. But on the following day the Times, after an interval for reflection, completely changed its position, admitted that the design of the Captain must have been at fault, recalled the fact that the catastrophe had been foreseen by the highest authorities, and protested against the building of any more ships of the same character. There was nothing surprising in this change of front, for the first views of the paper had been obviously inconsistent with the facts and with commonsense. But Mr. Baines was immensely impressed by the fact that the Leeds Mercury had grasped the essential truth before the Times. He greatly exaggerated the merit of his editor in the matter, came to the conclusion that I had become indispensable to the paper, and would not rest until I had entered into a new and binding agreement with him to continue my editorship on conditions that were greatly to my own advantage.

Thus this grave disaster to an English ship led to my final relinquishment of the idea of returning to London as a literary free lance, and to my settling in Leeds as permanent editor of the Mercury. Gradually my life in the town of my adoption became more agreeable to me. I made friends who were kind to me with the characteristic kindness of Yorkshire. I began to feel the power, as well as the responsibility, of my position; and I learned before long that, even in connection with the local affairs of a great community, a man can render services to his fellow citizens quite as important as any that he can render on the larger platform of public life.

It was at the close of 1870 that I first made the personal acquaintance of a man to whom I was afterwards to be deeply and permanently indebted. This was Monckton Milnes, first Lord Houghton. There was no better known figure in London society in those days than Lord Houghton. But he was much more than a figure in society. Delightful as host, raconteur, poet, and man of letters, he was more admirable still as the generous and willing servant of those who needed help. He had his foibles, his likes and his dislikes; but he was not one of those philanthropists who wait to be asked for their help. Where he was attracted towards anyone he was eager to aid, not only without solicitation, but at times even against the will of the beneficiary himself. I have known many kind men, many true friends, in the course of my life; I have known none whose kindness was more unstinted, more constant, or more generous than that of Lord Houghton. He had come to Leeds in December, 1870, to attend some public meeting, and he was entertained as his guest by Mr. Baines, whose son, as I have already explained, was my predecessor in the editorship of the Mercury.

At the dinner-table at Mr. Baines's house, Lord Houghton was as vivacious and as full of good talk as usual. The conversation happened to turn upon slips of the tongue. Houghton said that the most amusing he remembered was that of the lady who, meeting a friend in the street, exclaimed, "Have you heard of the dreadful thing that has happened to my poor brother John? He has become a Yarmouth Bloater." The good lady meant, of course, to say "Plymouth Brother." To Houghton's surprise, his story was received in embarrassed silence, and someone, as he told me afterwards, trod heavily upon his foot. Monckton Milnes was not a man to be easily disconcerted, and he speedily restored the party to a proper mood of geniality; but after dinner he took someone aside, and asked the meaning of the cold reception of his joke. He received the explanation which the reader will anticipate. It was because Mr. Tom Baines had become a Plymouth Brother that he had been compelled to retire from the editorship of the Mercury, to the great distress of his father. My name as his successor in that position was unknown until then to Lord Houghton, but he had no sooner heard it than he invited me to visit him at Fryston.

When I first entered the hospitable door of Fryston, I suffered from a distinct feeling of trepidation. It was new to me to meet men of Lord Houghton's social rank and fame on terms of friendly intimacy, and I confess that I was miserably shy when I made my first appearance among the company assembled in that pleasant morning room, where, long years before, Thomas Carlyle had been first introduced to the amenities of English country-house life. Carlyle has told the world, in a letter written to his wife, how much he was confounded by what seemed to him to be the splendours of a society that he had hitherto viewed only from the outside. His description of his bedroom-it was much larger and grander in the letter than any bedroom that really existed at Fryston-of the servants in livery, the menu of the dinner-table, and of the valet who made unlawful and undesired investigation of the contents of his pockets when he intruded himself upon him in the morning, all bespoke the absolute novice. I do not think, however, that he was a greater novice in 1842 than I was in 1870. A very brief experience enables any person of ordinary intelligence to grasp the essential details of country-house life; but many persons-including Carlyle and myself-would have been spared a certain spell of nervous discomfort if there had existed some simple written code explaining those usages and customs in which country-house life differs from the ordinary life of the English middle-classes. But kindness puts an end to all difficulties of the shy guest, and certainly there never was a kinder hostess than Lady Houghton.

From 1870 down to 1885 I had the good fortune to be a frequent visitor at Fryston. Lord Houghton's kindness to me at our first meeting only increased as time passed; and writing of him now, long after he has passed away, I must relieve my heart by saying that I owe more to him and to his unceasing efforts, not merely to draw me out, but to push me forward, than to any other friend I have ever made. There was a whimsical side to his character which, naturally enough, attracted more attention than was given to his more sober qualities. The eccentricities of his youth, embalmed by Sydney Smith and the other humorists of the 'thirties and 'forties, had disappeared when I made his acquaintance; but to the last he was absolutely careless as to public opinion, except on such points as those on which he himself shared that opinion. The truest thing that was ever said of him was said by William Edward Forster at the Cosmopolitan Club one night, when Houghton was leaving it. Someone said, referring to Houghton, "He's a good man to trust when you're in trouble, for he'll stand by you." "He'll do more than that," responded Forster; "he'll stand by a man not only in trouble but in disgrace, and I know nobody else who will." This was where the finer trait in Houghton's independence of character came in. He was always ready to espouse the cause of a man upon whom the world was frowning, but happily this quality is not uncommon among our nobler natures. That which was most uncommon in Houghton's character was his willingness to befriend a man even when he knew that the disgrace into which he had fallen was not undeserved. He could be severe-as severe as anybody I have ever known-upon vice and meanness; but if the sinner needed help he pitied him at once, and was ready to aid him to the best of his power.

His talk in his own house was delightful. It was altogether different from the talk that men heard when they met him at London dinner-tables. Strangely enough, it was at the breakfast-table that he talked best. Most Englishmen are not roused to conversational brilliancy until the day is far spent; but Houghton was at his best at breakfast and immediately afterwards. And how good that best was! He was a walking encyclopaedia, although no man was ever less of "a book in breeches." Whenever I wished to clear up some obscure point in history or politics, in literature or in the personal life of our times, I went to him, and seldom was it that I failed to get the light I wanted. As a judge of character he had no equal among the men I have known, and in the years that have flown since his death I have had the happiness of seeing his forecast of the future of not a few men strikingly realised. The first time I ever heard the name of Lord Rosebery was from his lips, in 1874 or 1875. I had seen the name in print, of course, but to me it was a name, and nothing more. "You don't know Lord Rosebery?" said he one day. "Then mark him well. He is the ablest young man in England, and, I believe, will be Prime Minister before he dies."

On another occasion he shocked me for the moment by a deliverance about Mr. Gladstone. It was in 1880, when the great statesman, having won the most brilliant triumph of his life, and finally defeated his great rival, Lord Beaconsfield, was struck down by serious illness a few weeks after he had regained power. "I am so sorry to see that Gladstone is getting better," Houghton said to me as we sat in the library at Fryston. I could hardly believe my own ears, and expressed my surprise at hearing such a sentiment from the lips of one of Mr. Gladstone's greatest admirers. "Don't you see," responded Houghton, "that if he dies now he will be one of the greatest figures in English history? He has just won the greatest triumph a statesman ever enjoyed. It is impossible that he can remain at this dazzling height. Now is the time for him to die." Those who only knew Lord Houghton as a genial cynic would have been surprised if they had known that in his opinion the greatest Englishman of his own time was Lord Shaftesbury, and the greatest Englishwoman Florence Nightingale. Those who were acquainted with his poetry would not have felt this surprise. There is much in his verse, neglected though it now be, which deserves a high place in our national literature. But in his later days-or, rather, throughout his life-the world refused to see his more serious side, and treated him as the humorist and the wit, the cynic, and the kind-hearted but eccentric peer who made it his mission in life to try to fuse the two worlds of society and intellect.

He certainly had wonderful success in bringing together men who stood at opposite poles both of position and opinion. In the days when Mr. John Morley was only known as a promising writer of the most terrible heterodoxy, he dined with Houghton, and was placed next the Archbishop of Canterbury. "Who is that clever-looking young man sitting next the Archbishop?" asked Lord Selborne, who was also at the table. When he was told that it was Mr. Morley, the editor of the Fortnightly Review and the author of the famous "little g," he threw up his hands in absolute consternation. But Houghton had a rare discrimination in bringing men together. He never brought people who disliked each other into juxtaposition, as some notorious hostesses of our own time are fond of doing. What he did was to gather round his table men of talent and worth who would have had little chance of meeting but for his kindly and hospitable intervention, and many a lifelong friendship has thus been begun beneath his roof.

One of the earliest lessons a man learnt on being admitted to Houghton's cosmopolitan society was the great need of care in the selection of topics in addressing a stranger. Most persons one met at Fryston had either done something or were somebodies, and occasionally their fame was not of the kind that commends itself to everybody. It was necessary, therefore, to walk delicately, like Agag, in opening a conversation with a stranger. A terrible experience of my own will illustrate this fact. As boy and man I had adored Thackeray, and made him the hero of my literary dreams. There was one incident in his early life about which I was quite unreasonably curious. I wanted to know which of his schoolfellows it was who broke his nose and disfigured him for life, and I had made up my mind that if ever I met a man who had been at school with him I would question him on this point. During one of my earlier visits to Fryston I found that George Venables, the well-known Parliamentary counsel and Saturday Reviewer, was staying there. Venables was one of the most distinguished men of his day. His ripe judgment commanded universal confidence, whilst the somewhat austere manner which veiled a warm heart inspired chance acquaintances with a certain feeling of awe. During dinner I heard Venables talking about his early days at the Charterhouse, and felt at once that my long-sought chance had come. Accordingly, when I was walking with him in the Fryston woods on the following morning, I plucked up my courage, and asked him if he had been at the Charterhouse with Thackeray. "Certainly I was," replied the eminent publicist; "we entered on the same day, and were great friends all the time we were at school." "Then," said I, rushing blindly upon my fate, "you can tell me what I have long wanted to know. Who was it that broke Thackeray's nose?"

It was winter, and we were walking in Indian file through the woods. As I put this question to Venables, he suddenly stopped, and, turning round, glared at me in a manner that instantly revealed the terrible truth to my alarmed intelligence. He continued to glare for several seconds, and then, apparently perceiving nothing but innocent confusion, not unmixed with alarm, on my face, his own features became relaxed into a more amiable expression. "Did anybody tell you," he said slowly, and with solemn emphasis, "to ask me that question?" I could truthfully say that nobody had done so. My answer seemed to mollify Venables at once. "Then, if nobody put you up to asking me that question, I don't mind answering it. It was I who broke Thackeray's nose. We were only little boys at the time, and quarrelled over something, and had the usual fight. It wasn't my fault that he was disfigured for life; it was all the fault of some wretched doctor. Nowadays a boy's nose can be mended so that nobody can see that it has ever been broken. Let me tell you," he continued, "that Thackeray never showed me any ill-will for the harm I had done him, and I do not believe he felt any." Nor, I must add, did Venables show any ill-will to me for the gaucherie which had caused me to rake up this painful episode in his career.

Venables himself had been the victim of another mistake, which he resented more strongly than he did my indiscretion. He told the story to me and to Mrs. Procter one day in the drawing-room at Fryston, with keen indignation. A certain noble lord had approached him at an evening party with an air of extraordinary deference. Venables knew the peer very slightly, and was surprised by the salaams with which he was greeted. His surprise changed to fury when he discovered that his lordship had mistaken him for a notorious millionaire of somewhat dubious reputation who had just blossomed into a baronetcy. "Think of it!" he said with lofty scorn. "The fellow came cringing to me as if I were a prince of the blood, merely because he thought I was that odious adventurer, and had money in my pocket." Mrs. Procter sprang from her seat, and, hobbling across the room with extended forefinger, cried to Venables, in tones of dramatic intensity, "Does that noble lord still live?"

It was from Venables that I heard a delightful story about our host which, years afterwards, I repeated in writing Lord Houghton's life. It was the story of Carlyle's remark when Tennyson's friends were trying to procure a pension for him from Sir Robert Peel. "Richard Milnes," said Carlyle, taking his pipe out of his mouth, "when are ye gaun to get that pension for Alfred Tennyson?" Milnes tried to explain to Carlyle that there were difficulties in the way, and that possibly his constituents, who knew nothing about Tennyson, might accuse him of being concerned in a job if he were to succeed in getting the desired pension for the poet. "Richard Milnes," replied the sage, "on the Day of Judgment, when the Lord asks ye why ye didna get that pension for Alfred Tennyson, it'll no do to lay the blame on your constituents. It's you that'll be damned." I always had a half impression that, for some reason or other, Lord Houghton did not like to hear that story told in his presence. All the world knows, of course, that he did get the pension for the poet, and thus escaped the penalty anticipated by the philosopher.

But if Lord Houghton was sensitive on some points, he was frank and courageous in acknowledging his own youthful follies and the punishment which they brought upon him. I shall never forget his taking me to a particular corner in that vast library at Fryston-which, like some vegetable parasite, seemed to have spread itself over every inch of available wall-space in the house-and taking down from the shelves a volume of the "Life of Sydney Smith." His object in doing so was to show me the original manuscript of the pungent and witty letter in which Sydney Smith rebuked him sharply for having written a somewhat peppery note to ask the Canon if it was true that he had dubbed him "the cool of the evening." "What a young fool I was!" said Lord Houghton, when he had read the letter to me. "And how good it was of Sydney Smith to set me down in that fashion!"

Everybody knows that Lord Houghton was the most tolerant of men in all matters of faith and opinion; but he did not allow mere carelessness or idleness to serve as an excuse for the disregard of religious observances. My usual time for visiting Fryston was on Saturday, when I was free from the charge of my paper for four-and-twenty hours. My kind friend always insisted on Sunday morning that instead of going to church I should spend the morning in strolling in the park, either alone or in his delightful company. This, he would say, was necessary in the interests of my health. I spent more Sundays at Fryston than I can count, but I never entered the little church hard by the park gates until the sad day when I went there to attend his funeral. One Sunday evening, when there was a rather large party at the Hall-including John Morley-we were summoned by the old butler-himself a character not unworthy of commemoration-to prayers in the morning room. Lord Houghton was good enough to intimate to Morley and myself that we should not be expected to attend, and we accordingly remained in the drawing-room in conversation. A certain young Yorkshire baronet, who was also of the party, influenced by our bad example, stayed behind with us. In a couple of minutes, however, the butler reappeared, and going up to the baronet, said, "Sir Henry, his lordship is waiting for you before he begins prayers." The liberty accorded to the philosophic writer and the editor was not permitted to the country gentleman. I think I ought to add, in justice to Mr. Morley at least, that he and I accompanied the unwilling young man to the scene of the family devotions.

I must stay my hand, however, in these rambling recollections of my kind and brilliant friend and benefactor. No doubt I shall have more to say about him before my task is finished; but for the present I must take up again the thread of my narrative.