G was a Genius and mountain of mind;
L a Logician expert and refined;
A an Adept at rhetorical art;
D was the Dark spot that lurked in his heart;
S was the Subtlety that led him astray;
T was the Truth that he bartered away;
O was the Cypher his conscience became;
N was the New-light that lit up the same;
E was the Evil-One shouting for joy,—
'Down with it! down with it! Gladstone, my boy!
[Footnote: Another, slightly different, edition of this acrostic, with the answer to it from the Radical point of view, is given in Sir M. E. Grant Duff's Notes from a Diary, 1873-81, vol. i. p. 126.]
From Lord Cairns
December 7th—Putting aside the well-regulated party feeling which we ought all to endeavour to cultivate, the sensation of a period of repose after twenty-five years of hardish work is, to me, so novel and agreeable that I fear I do not look on my exit from office [Footnote: On the fall of Disraeli's ministry.] with the solicitude that I ought. But I do not the less appreciate the kind sentiments in your note, and I can safely say that upon the Judicial Committee, whether as Chancellor or as Lord Justice, it has been a very great pleasure to me to co-operate with anyone whose anxiety and efforts for the efficiency of the tribunal, and whose ability to contribute to that end, are as great as yours.
I am most desirous that the two ecclesiastical judgements should be given before Christmas, as I may be absent for some weeks after that day. I hope to send you my draft in Mackonochie on Wednesday, and I will beg you to print and circulate it as soon as possible. I wish I could have done it sooner; but it is magnum opus et difficile, and I have had judgements in chancery and other work on hand, and in this I felt obliged to trust to no amanuensis.
The following letter is from the widow of Sir James Smith, the botanist (d. 1828), and at this time in her ninety-sixth year. By her maiden name she was Pleasance Reeve, an old family friend, but not a relation of her namesake. Her letters are not less remarkable for the clearness and strength of the writing, than they are for the vigour of the thought and the lucidity of the expression. Five years later, just as she had completed her one hundredth year, Reeve and his daughter paid her a visit at Lowestoft, which is recorded on a later page. [Footnote: See post, p. 215.]
Lowestoft, December 16th—Surely, dear Mr. Reeve, this is not the first time you have inquired of me concerning Lowestoft china? Either you, or Dr. Hooker it might be; whichever it was, I sent him all that I knew about it, and that all is very little, for I am one of the sceptics, and have been filled with doubt and surprise at the reports I have heard. But I am told I am quite mistaken, and that it surely had arrived at a great state of perfection; that foreign artists had been employed; and that, if what is shown is not Lowestoft china, what other is it? For there is a peculiarity in it which those acquainted with [it] know at first sight, and which is totally different from Chelsea, or Derby, or Worcestershire, or Staffordshire. This I admit. One peculiarity Mr. S. Martin observed. The bottoms of the saucers have very slight undulations, looking, as he said, like a ribbon that requires ironing to be perfectly flat and smooth. This, when he showed me, I also noticed; and, I must add, I have seen the same in real Chinese china; but he told me he could distinguish better, and that it was not the same. Also, there is a uniformity in certain little flowers and roses which is seen in no others. The shapes are good, and as the manufacture advanced the painting was improved; armorial bearings were represented, and gilding.
S. Martin, who could send you a much more perfect account than I can, always calls on an old woman—the widow of Rose, a painter—who recollects their melting guineas for gold to gild with. She, perhaps, is dead now, for when he last called she was bedrid, and nearly insensible. I recommend you to ask of Mr. S. Martin, Liverpool, who, I am sure, would give you much information I cannot.
What I do know I will tell as well as I can—That in my early youth there was a manufactory; that I often went and saw Mr. Allen dab a piece of white clay on a wheel, and, with his foot turning the wheel, with his right hand he formed a handsome basin or cup in a minute or two. The china basins, cups, saucers, pots, jugs—everything was made here, painted here, by poor sickly looking boys and girls, for it was a very unwholesome trade—baked here; and they had a shop in London, which, I suppose, took off the bulk of their manufactured articles. I remember the great water-wheel which ground the clay—a fearful monster, sublime, I must say, for it 'hid its limits in its greatness;' but the beautiful lake that supplied it with water, and was covered with water-lilies, was one of my favourite resorts.
Gillingwater [Footnote: Historical Account of the Ancient Town of Lowestoft (1790).] tells us that Mr. Hewling Luson found the clay on his estate in 1756, made experiments, was defeated; other persons took it up, and were also hindered through jealousy; another trial proved unsuccessful, but repeated efforts succeeded, and the manufacture began, and went on till about the end of the century, or early in 1800, when my brother bought a few articles at the final sale by way of remembrance, but these, though pretty, are by no means the choicest specimens. A man in the town has a whole dinner service, with, I think, ducal bearings; and only last summer Mr. Bohn [Footnote: Henry George Bohn, the well-known publisher, and almost equally well-known collector of articles of vertu.] gave 5 £ to an old man for one little cup, which the poor fellow intended as a legacy to his daughter, and he unwillingly sold it; but 5 £ bribed him—or it might be more; the original price was probably 4_d_. or 6_d_. at most.