Lord Lytton was generally invisible in the morning, sometimes after lunch. In the evening he came out splendidly groomed, fresh as a rose, and at dinner and after was as interesting as any of his books. He had known “everybody” to a surprising extent, and had anecdotes fresh and vivid of every one whom he had met. He loved music, and there was a lady who sang old Spanish ballads with rare taste. I enjoyed myself incredibly.
I may be excused for mentioning here that I sent a copy of the second edition of my “Meister Karl’s Sketch-Book” to Lord Lytton. No one but Irving and Trübner had ever praised it. When Lord Lytton published afterwards “Kenelm Chillingly,” I found in it three passages in which I recognised beyond dispute others suggested by my own work. I do not in the least mean that there was any borrowing or taking beyond the mere suggestion of thought. Why I think that Lord Lytton had these hints in his mind is that he gave the name of Leland to one of the minor characters in the book.
When I published a full edition of “Breitmann’s Poems,” he wrote me a long letter criticising and praising the work, and a much longer and closely written one, of seven pages, relating to my “Confucius and Other Poems.” I was subsequently invited to receptions at his house in London, where I first met Browning, and had a long conversation with him. I saw him afterwards at Mrs. Proctor’s. This was the wife of Barry Cornwall, whom I also saw. He was very old and infirm. I can remember when the “Cornlaw Rhymes” rang wherever English was read.
As I consider it almost a duty to record what I can remember of Bulwer, I may mention that one evening, at his house in London, he showed me and others some beautiful old brass salvers in repoussé work, and how I astonished him by describing the process, and declaring that I could produce
a facsimile of any one of them in a day or two; to which assertion hundreds to whom I have taught the art, as well as my “Manual of Repoussé,” and another on “Metal Work,” will, I trust, bear witness. And this I mention, not vainly, but because Lord Lytton seemed to be interested and pleased, and because, in after years, I had much to do with reviving the practice of this beautiful art. It was practising this, and a three years’ study of oak-wood carving, which led me to write on the Minor Arts. Mihi æs et triplex robur.
Lord Lytton had the very curious habit of making almost invisible hieroglyphics or crosses in his letters—at least I found them in those to me, as it were for luck. It was a very common practice from the most ancient Egyptian times to within two centuries. Lord Lytton’s were evidently intended to escape observation. But there was indeed a great deal in his character which would escape most persons, and which has not been revealed by any writer on him. This I speedily divined, though, of course, I never discovered what it all was.
Lord Houghton, “Richard Monckton Milnes,” to whom I had a letter of introduction from Lorimer Graham, was very kind to me. I dined and lunched at his house, where I met Odo Russell or Lord Ampthill, the Duke of Bedford, the Hon. Mrs. Norton, W. W. Story, and I know not how many more distinguished in society, or letters. At Lord Lytton’s I made the acquaintance of the Duke of Wellington. I believe, however, that this meeting with Lord Houghton and the Duke was in my second year in London.
The first English garden-party which I ever attended was during this first season, at the villa of Mr. Bohn, the publisher, at Twickenham. There I made the acquaintance of George Cruikshank, whom I afterwards met often, and knew very well till his death. He was a gay old fellow, and on this occasion danced a jig with old Mr. Bohn on the lawn, and joked with me. There, too, we met Lady Martin, who had been the famed Helen Faucit. Cruikshank was always
inexhaustible in jokes, anecdotes, and reminiscences. At his house I made the acquaintance of Miss Ada Cavendish.
To revert to Mr. Trübner’s, I may say that one evening after dinner, when, genial though quiet, Bret Harte was one of the guests, he was asked to repeat the “Heathen Chinee,” which he could not do, as he had never learned it—which is not such an unusual thing, by the way, as many suppose. But I, who knew it, remarked, “Ladies and gentlemen, it is nothing to merely write a poem. True genius consists in getting it by or from heart [from Bret Harte, for instance], and repeating it. This genius nature has denied to the illustrious poet before you—but not to me, as I will now illustrate by declaiming the ‘Heathen Chinee.’” Which performance was received with applause, in which Harte heartily joined. But my claim to possess genius would hardly have borne examination, for it was years before I ever learned “Hans Breitmann’s Barty,” nor would I like to risk even a pound to one hundred that I can do it now without mixing the verses or committing some error.