HIS EXCELLENCY LORD HOUGHTON IN HIS STUDY.
THE HON. MRS. HENNIKER IN HER BOUDOIR.
“Why, yes,” replied she, with an amused smile, “don’t you know the ridiculous story that Mr. Wemyss Reid, in his charming biography of my father, tells, and which, indeed, I believe was first told by Sir Henry Taylor, in his autobiography? I will tell it you. You know my father was acquainted with everybody, and his greatest pleasure in life was to introduce the notoriety of the moment to the leading members of English Society. On the particular occasion on which this story was told, it is alleged that somebody asked whether a certain murderer—it was Courvoisier, I think, the valet who killed his master—had been hanged that morning, and my aunt immediately answered, ’I hope so, or Richard will have him to his breakfast party next Thursday.’ But this story, Mr. Blathwayt, is really absolutely without foundation. I have here,” continued Mrs. Henniker, “a very interesting book of autographs, which I have kept for as far back as I can remember, and in which everybody who came to our house had to write their names,” and as she spoke she placed in my hands a large volume, on every page of which was a photograph and an autograph. There was Lecky, the historian; and Trench, the late Archbishop of Dublin; Sir Richard Burton, the traveller; and Owen Meredith, the poet. There was a portrait of Swinburne when quite a young man, together with his autograph. “I have known Mr. Swinburne all my life,” remarked Mrs. Henniker. “I used to play croquet with him when I was quite a little girl, and laugh at him because he used to get in such a passion when I won the game.” There was John Bright’s signature, there was that of Philippe d’Orléans and General Chanzy, and last, but not least, there was that of Charles Dickens.
THE DRAWING ROOM, DUBLIN CASTLE.
“My father,” explained Mrs. Henniker, “was a very old friend of Dickens, and, curiously enough, his grandmother was a housekeeper at Crewe Hall, where my mother was born, and I have often heard her say that the greatest treat that could be given her and her brother and sister was an afternoon in the housekeeper’s room at Crewe, for Mrs. Dickens was a splendid story-teller, and used to love to gather the children round her and tell them fairy stories. And so it was only natural that my mother should feel a special interest in Charles Dickens, when she came to know him in after life. I believe that the very last time that he ever dined out was at my father’s house, when a dinner was specially arranged to enable the Prince of Wales and the King of the Belgians to make his acquaintance. Even at that time, poor man, he was suffering so much from rheumatic gout that he had to remain in the dining room until the guests had assembled, so that he was introduced to the Prince at the dinner table. I might mention that Dean Stanley wrote to my father, asking him to be one of those who should place before him the proposal that Charles Dickens should be buried in the Abbey.”
THRONE ROOM, DUBLIN CASTLE.
Amongst the many interesting letters and papers that Mrs. Henniker showed me was one from Mr. Gladstone to herself congratulating her on her first novel “Sir George,” for Mrs. Henniker, notwithstanding the rather unfortunate fact that she has many social duties to attend to, which must necessarily hinder her in what would otherwise be a brilliant literary career, is a remarkably fine writer of a certain class of fiction, and notably of what may be termed the Society novel. But almost better than her novels, of which she has produced some two or three within the last few years, are her short stories, of which she published one, a singularly able study of lower middle-class life, in an early number of the “Speaker,” and which many of the readers of that journal will remember under the title of a “Bank Holiday.” With reference to “Sir George,” Mr. Gladstone, who is a very old friend of her family, wrote: ”My dear Mrs. Henniker,—It is, I admit, with fear and trembling that I commonly open a novel which is presented to me.” He then goes on to speak in strong terms of eulogy of the book which she had sent to him. The letter was not without a special interest as giving one a glimpse into the mind of the G.O.M. on what must be one of the most arduous duties of his hardworking life. Referring to the publication of her most recent novel, “Foiled,” which is a depiction of Society life as it actually is, and not, as is so frequently the case, of the writer’s imagination as to what Society is or should be, I asked Mrs. Henniker if she wrote her stories from life.