IT is curious if one lives long enough to watch the change oftaste in books. I have no lending-library statistics athand, but judging by the reading of young people, or of thosewho read merely for their amusement, the authors theypatronise are nearly all living or very recent. What we oldstagers esteemed as classical in fiction and BELLES-LETTRESare sealed books to the present generation. It is anexception, for instance, to meet with a young man or youngwoman who has read Walter Scott. Perhaps Balzac's reason isthe true one. Scott, says he, 'est sans passion; ill'ignore, ou peut-etre lui etait-elle interdite par lesmoeurs hypocrites de son pays. Pour lui la femme est ledevoir incarne. A de rares exceptions pres, ses heroinessont absolument les memes ... La femme porte le desordre dansla societe par la passion. La passion a des accidentsinfinis. Peignez donc les passions, vous aurez les sourcesimmenses dont s'est prive ce grand genie pour etre lu danstoutes les familles de la prude Angleterre.' Does notThackeray lament that since Fielding no novelist has dared toface the national affectation of prudery? No English authorwho valued his reputation would venture to write as AnatoleFrance writes, even if he could. Yet I pity the man who doesnot delight in the genius that created M. Bergeret.
A well-known author said to me the other day, he did notbelieve that Thackeray himself would be popular were hewriting now for the first time - not because of his freedom,but because the public taste has altered. No present age canpredict immortality for the works of its day; yet to say thatwhat is intrinsically good is good for all time is but atruism. The misfortune is that much of the best inliterature shares the fate of the best of ancient monumentsand noble cities; the cumulative rubbish of ages buries theirsplendours, till we know not where to find them. The day maycome when the most valuable service of the man of letterswill be to unearth the lost treasures and display them,rather than add his grain of dust to the ever-increasingmiddens.
Is Carlyle forgotten yet, I wonder? How much did mycontemporaries owe to him in their youth? How readily wefollowed a leader so sure of himself, so certain of his ownevangel. What an aid to strength to be assured that the truehero is the morally strong man. One does not criticise whatone loves; one didn't look too closely into the doctrinethat, might is right, for somehow he managed to persuade usthat right makes the might - that the strong man is the manwho, for the most part, does act rightly. He is not over-patient with human frailty, to be sure, and is apt, asHerbert Spencer found, to fling about his scorn ratherrecklessly. One fancies sometimes that he has more respectfor a genuine bad man than for a sham good one. In fact, his'Eternal Verities' come pretty much to the same as Darwin's'Law of the advancement of all organic bodies'; 'let thestrong live, and the weakest die.' He had no objection toseeing 'the young cuckoo ejecting its foster-brothers, orants making slaves.' But he atones for all this by hishatred of cant and hypocrisy. It is for his manliness thatwe love him, for his honesty, for his indifference to anymortal's approval save that of Thomas Carlyle. He convincesus that right thinking is good, but that right doing is muchbetter. And so it is that he does honour to men of actionlike his beloved Oliver, and Fritz, - neither of themparagons of wisdom or of goodness, but men of doughty deeds.
Just about this time I narrowly missed a longed-for chance ofmeeting this hero of my PENATES. Lady Ashburton - Carlyle'sLady Ashburton - knowing my admiration, kindly invited me toThe Grange, while he was there. The house was full - mainlyof ministers or ex-ministers, - Cornewall Lewis, Sir CharlesWood, Sir James Graham, Albany Fonblanque, Mr. Ellice, andCharles Buller - Carlyle's only pupil; but the great manhimself had left an hour before I got there. I often met himafterwards, but never to make his acquaintance. Of course, Iknew nothing of his special friendship for Lady Ashburton,which we are told was not altogether shared by Mrs. Carlyle;but I well remember the interest which Lady Ashburton seemedto take in his praise, how my enthusiasm seemed to pleaseher, and how Carlyle and his works were topics she was nevertired of discussing.
The South Western line to Alresford was not then made, and Ihad to post part of the way from London to The Grange. Mychaise companion was a man very well known in 'Society'; andthough not remarkably popular, was not altogetherundistinguished, as the following little tale will attest.
Frederick Byng, one of the Torrington branch of the Byngs,was chiefly famous for his sobriquet 'The Poodle'; this heowed to no special merit of his own, but simply to theaccident of his thick curly head of hair. Some, who spokefeelingly of the man, used to declare that he had fulfilledthe promises of his youth. What happened to him then mayperhaps justify the opinion.
The young Poodle was addicted to practical jokes - as usual,more amusing to the player than to the playee. One of hisvictims happened to be Beau Brummell, who, except when hebade 'George ring the bell,' was as perfect a model ofdeportment as the great Mr. Turveydrop himself. His studieddecorum possibly provoked the playfulness of the young puppy;and amongst other attempts to disturb the Beau's complacency,Master Byng ran a pin into the calf of that gentleman's leg,and then he ran away. A few days later Mr. Brummell, who hadcarefully dissembled his wrath, invited the unwary youth tobreakfast, telling him that he was leaving town, and had apresent which his young friend might have, if he chose tofetch it. The boy kept the appointment, and the Beau hispromise. After an excellent breakfast, Brummell took a whipfrom his cupboard, and gave it to the Poodle in a way theyoung dog was not likely to forget.
The happiest of my days then, and perhaps of my life, werespent at Mr. Ellice's Highland Lodge, at Glenquoich. Forsport of all kinds it was and is difficult to surpass. Thehills of the deer forest are amongst the highest in Scotland;the scenery of its lake and glens, especially the descent toLoch Hourne, is unequalled. Here were to be met many of themost notable men and women of the time. And as the house wastwenty miles from the nearest post-town, and that in turn twodays from London, visitors ceased to be strangers before theyleft. In the eighteen years during which this was my autumnhome, I had the good fortune to meet numbers of distinguishedpeople of whom I could now record nothing interesting buttheir names. Still, it is a privilege to have known such menas John Lawrence, Guizot, Thiers, Landseer, Merimee, Comte deFlahault, Doyle, Lords Elgin and Dalhousie, Duc de Broglie,Pelissier, Panizzi, Motley, Delane, Dufferin; and of giftedwomen, the three Sheridans, Lady Seymour - the Queen ofBeauty, afterwards Duchess of Somerset - Mrs. Norton, andLady Dufferin. Amongst those who have a retrospectiveinterest were Mr. and Lady Blanche Balfour, parents of Mr.
Arthur Balfour, who came there on their wedding tour in 1843.
Mr. Arthur Balfour's father was Mrs. Ellice's first cousin.
It would be easy to lengthen the list; but I mention onlythose who repeated their visits, and who fill up my mentalpicture of the place and of the life. Some amongst themimpressed me quite as ............