“Were you there?” he asked. I nodded.
“Do you remember at all what he said?”
I produced my notes.
“Do you mind reading them out to me?” he asked, after a despairing glance at the writing. I did. He took no notes; but he had an admirable memory, and he evidently took it all in, for that evening, without having lowered his dignity by being present at the evangelist’s attack on him, he turned the tables on the offender from his own pulpit, with a dissection of his remarks which can only be compared to throwing vitriol, though it was all done with beautiful polish and observance of form.
He was never more amusing than when he was sympathising about the difficulties which he described Andrew Lang as experiencing when he came to St. Andrews. He was such a master of innuendo.
Dr. Boyd wrote his books in handwriting so minute that he could get two thousand words on to one foolscap page. The firm who always printed them for his publishers had large magnifying glasses fitted to the case on which his copy was fixed for setting it up. And Dr. Boyd was very proud of it.
One of Dr. Boyd’s sons has inherited his power as a writer—my friend Charles Boyd, who acted for some time as private secretary to Cecil Rhodes in South Africa.
Sir Charles Dilke, M.P., took a flattering interest in my books, and was very friendly in his intercourse with me. The most amusing reminiscences I have in connection with him are à propos of a dinner at which we were both taken in, though I was too obscure for it to signify in my case.
A dinner for a high-sounding object was given at Prince’s. Sixty important public men and leading writers and journalists were invited, and Sir Charles Dilke was asked to respond to the toast of the evening.
His rising to speak was the signal for three great acetylene flares to be turned on, which reduced the scores of electric lights in the room to looking like the gas jets in the Richmond railway-station. This was taken as a compliment to Sir Charles, though it would have disconcerted any less practised speaker.