Wishing to save him from the infliction, because he was always rather distrait with bores, I said, “That is Mr. Hawkins.” I didn’t think she knew enough about literature to be aware of the identity, nor did she, but he had unfortunately caught the words “Anthony Hope,” and smiled, and started forward, and was lost. As he had unconsciously convicted me of falsehood, I left him to his fate.
Generous to needy brother authors, punctilious in the performance of the duties to the literary profession, which his eminence confers on him (in such matters as the Authors’ Society and literary clubs), wonderfully patient and courteous, an admirable literary craftsman, who never turns out slipshod work, as well as a brilliant romancer and witty dialogist, Anthony Hope Hawkins deserves every particle of his popularity and success.
I have not dilated on his plays, though he has achieved great success on the stage, because dramatists tell me that he is not going to write for it any more.
The popularity of our at-homes was at its height before Frankfort Moore had decided to come over to England, giving up the editorial post he held in Ireland, to devote all his time to novel-writing. He and his delightful wife, the sister of Mrs. Bram Stoker, took lodgings at Kew, and were ready for many receptions, so that he might meet his fellow-authors in London. As Bram Stoker had then for years been Irving’s right hand, they had an excellent introduction ready-made, but they brought letters of introduction to us, and, up to the time of his leaving London, he was among our most intimate literary friends.
Frankfort Moore’s success in London was instantaneous, as well it might have been, since he was a brilliant and witty speaker, as well as a writer of brilliant, witty and very charming books. Hutchinson eagerly took up the publication of his works, and the literary clubs soon learned to depend upon him as one of the best after-dinner speakers. In about ten years he made a fortune, and retired to take things in a more leisurely way at an old house in Sussex, where he was able to adequately house his fine collection of old oak, old brass, old engravings and old china, in which he was a noted connoisseur.
His immediate success justified his giving up his lodgings at Kew, and taking a nice, old-fashioned house in Pembroke Road, which he soon began to transform with his panelling, and his collections. His retirement from London left a great gap in many social circles. He was a universal favourite—a man of real eminence, although he regarded his achievements so modestly.
One of the most valued of our visitors was the celebrated Father Stanton, of St. Alban’s, Holborn, who introduced himself to me when he was on his way to Syracuse with F. E. Sidney, with whom he went to Seville on that expedition which resulted in the publication of the latter’s Anglican Innocents in Spain, the book which aroused such anger among Roman Catholics. We were the only two occupants of a sleeping compartment on the Italian railways. He was not wearing clerical dress, and I had no notion who he was until the conclusion of our journey, when Sidney, who had joined us, informed me. We did a lot of sight-seeing in Syracuse together, especially in the cathedral (built into an entire Greek temple, ascribed to Pallas Athene). Both Stanton and Sidney were experts in old gilt, in which Sicily is very rich—the organ at Syracuse is an example. From that time until Stanton’s death we constantly met at the house of Sidney, who has the best collection of sixteenth-century stained glass in England, and built a house in Frognal with the proper windows to receive it. Though Stanton and I did not agree in Church matters, we were yet staunch friends, and I was an immense admirer of one who did so much for the regeneration of the poor in one of the worst districts of London.
The greatest compliment we ever received at our at-homes was when Lord Dundonald, who had known us for some years, and had just come back from his famous relief of Ladysmith with his irregular cavalry, came and spent the best part of the afternoon with us. He looked worn and very sunburnt, but it was one of the events of our lifetimes to hear the stirring details of England’s greatest military drama in this generation, direct from the lips of the man who had given it its happy termination.