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Biographical Study of A. W. Kinglake by Rev. W. Tuckwell

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Churches"; he thinks they both know how to effleurer the surface of
theology without getting drowned in it. Of existing Churches he
preferred the English, as "the most harmless going"; disliked the
Latin Church, especially when intriguing in the East, as
persecuting and as schismatic, and therefore as no Church at all.
Roman Catholics, he said, have a special horror of being called
"schismatic," and that is, of course, a good reason for so calling
them. He would not permit the use of the word "orthodox," because,
like a parson in the pulpit, it is always begging the question. He
refused historical reverence to the Athanasian Creed, and was
delighted when Stanley's review in "The Times" of Mr. Ffoulkes'
learned book showed it to have been written by order of Charles the
Great in 800 A.D. as what Thorold Rogers used to call "an election
squib." In the "Filioque" controversy, once dear to Liddon and to
Gladstone, now, I suppose, obsolete for the English mind, but which
relates to the chief dividing tenet of East from West, he showed an
interest humorous rather than reverent; took pains to acquaint
himself with the views held on it by Dollinger and the old
Catholics; noted with amusement the perplexity of London ladies as
to the meaning of the word when quoted in the much-read "Quarterly"
article, declaring their belief to be that it was a clergyman's
baby born out of wedlock.

Madame Novikoff's political influence, which he recognized to the
full, he treated in the same mocking spirit. She is at Berlin,
received by Bismarck; he hopes that though the great man may not
eradicate her Slavophile heresies, he may manifest the weakness of
embroiling nations on mere ethnological grounds. "Are even nearer
relationships so delightful? would you walk across the street for a
third or fourth cousin? then why for a millionth cousin?" Madame
Novikoff kindly sends to me an "Imaginary Conversation" between
herself and Gortschakoff, constructed by Kinglake during her stay
in St. Petersburg in 1879.

"G. Well--you really have done good service to your country and
your Czar by dividing and confusing these absurd English, and
getting us out of the scrape we were in in that--Balkan Peninsula.

"Miss O. Well, certainly I did my best; but I fear I have ruined
the political reputation of my English partizans, for in order to
make them 'beloved of the Slave,' I of course had to make them,
poor souls! go against their own country; and their country, stupid
as it is, has now I fear found them out.

"G. Tant pis pour eux! Entre nous, if I had been Gladstone, I
should have preferred the love of my own country to the love of
these--Slaves of yours. But, tell me, how did you get hold of

"Miss O. Rien de plus simple! Four or five years ago I asked what
was his weak point, and was told that he had two, 'Effervescence,'
and 'Theology.' With that knowledge I found it all child's play to
manage him. I just sent him to Munich, and there boiled him up in
a weak decoction of 'Filioque,' then kept him ready for use, and
impatiently awaited the moment when our plans for getting up the
'Bulgarian atrocities' should be mature. I say 'impatiently,' for,
Heavens, how slow you all were! at least so it strikes a woman.
The arrangement of the 'atrocities' was begun by our people in
1871, and yet till 1876, though I had Gladstone ready in 1875,
nothing really was done! I assure you, Prince, it is a trying
thing to a woman to be kept waiting for promised atrocities such an
unconscionable time.

"G. That brother-in-law of yours was partly the cause of our
slowness. He was always wanting to have the orders for fire and
blood in neat formal despatches, signed by me, and copied by
clerks. However, I hope you are satisfied now, with the butcheries
and the flames, and the--?

"Miss O. Pour le moment!"

She is absent during the sudden dissolution of Parliament in 1874.
"London woke yesterday morning and found that your friend Gladstone
had made a coup-d'etat. He has dissolved Parliament at a moment
when no human being expected it, and my impression is that he has
made a good hit, and that the renovated Parliament will give him a
great majority." The impression was wildly wrong; and he found a
cause for the Conservative majority in Gladstone's tame foreign
policy, and especially in the pusillanimity his government showed
when insulted by Gortschakoff. He always does justice to her
influence with Gladstone; his great majority at the polls in 1880
is HER victory and HER triumph; but his Turkophobia is no less her
creation: "England is stricken with incapacity because you have
stirred up the seething caldron that boils under Gladstone's skull,
putting in diabolical charms and poisons of theology to overturn
the structure of English polity:" she will be able, he thinks, to
tell her government that Gladstone is doing his best to break up
the British Empire.

He quotes with approbation the newspaper comparison of her to the
Princess Lieven. She disparages the famous ambassadress; he sets
her right. Let her read the "Correspondence," by his friend Mr.
Guy Le Strange, and she will see how large a part the Princess
played in keeping England quiet during the war of 1828-29. She did
not convert her austere admirer, Lord Grey, to approval of the
Russian designs, nor overcome the uneasiness with which the Duke of
Wellington regarded her intrigues; but the Foreign Minister, Lord
Aberdeen, was apparently a fool in her hands; and, whoever had the
merit, the neutrality of England continued. That was, he repeats
more than once, a most critical time for Russia; it was an object
almost of life and death to the Czar to keep England dawdling in a
state of actual though not avowed neutrality. It is, he argued, a
matter of fact, that precisely this result was attained, and "I
shall be slow to believe that Madame de Lieven did not deserve a
great share of the glory (as you would think it) of making England
act weakly under such circumstances; more especially since we know
that the Duke did not like the great lady, and may be supposed to
have distinctly traced his painful embarrassment to her power." So
the letters go, interspersed with news, with criticisms of notable
persons, with comments enlightening or cynical on passing political
events: with personal matters only now and then; as when he notes
the loss of his two sisters; dwells with unwonted feeling on the
death of his eldest nephew by consumption; condoles with her on her
husband's illness; gives council, wise or playful, as to the
education of her son. "I am glad to hear that he is good at Greek,
Latin, and Mathematics, for that shows his cleverness; glad also to
hear that he is occasionally naughty, for that shows his force. I
advise you to claim and exercise as much control as possible,
because I am certain that a woman--especially so gifted a one as
you--knows more, or rather feels more, about the right way of
bringing up a boy than any mere man."

Unbrokenly the correspondence continues: the intimacy added charm,
interest, fragrance to his life, brought out in him all that was
genial, playful, humorous. He fights the admonitions of coming
weakness; goes to Sidmouth with a sore throat, but takes his papers
and his books. It is, he says, a deserted little sea-coast place.
"Mrs. Grundy has a small house there, but she does not know me by
sight. If Madame Novikoff were to come, the astonished little
town, dazzled first by her, would find itself invaded by
theologians, bishops, ambassadors of deceased emperors, and an ex-
Prime-Minister." But as time goes on he speaks more often of his
suffering throat; of gout, increasing deafness, only half a voice:
his last letter is written in July, 1890, to condole with his
friend upon her husband's death. In October his nurse takes the
pen; Madame Novikoff comes back hurriedly from Scotland to find him
in his last illness. "It is very nice," he told his nurse, "to see
dear Madame Novikoff again, but I am going down hill fast, and
cannot hope to be well enough to see much of her." This is in
November, 1890; on New Year's Eve came the inexorable, "Terminator
of delights and Separator of friends."


For twenty years Kinglake lived in Hyde Park Place, in bright
cheerful rooms looking in one direction across the Park, but on
another side into a churchyard. The churchyard, Lady Gregory tells
us, gave him pause on first seeing the rooms. "I should not like
to live here, I should be afraid of ghosts." "Oh no, sir, there is
always a policeman round the corner." {24} "Pleaceman X." has not,
perhaps, before been revered as the Shade-compelling son of Maia:

"Tu pias laetis animas reponis
Sedibus, virgaque levem coerces
Aurea turbam."

Here he worked through the morning; the afternoon took him to the
"Travellers," where his friends, Sir Henry Bunbury and Mr. Chenery,
usually expected him; then at eight o'clock, if not, as Shylock
says, bid forth, he went to dine at the Athenaeum. His dinner seat
was in the left-hand corner of the coffee-room, where, in the
thirties, Theodore Hook had been wont to sit, gathering near him so
many listeners to his talk, that at Hook's death in 1841 the
receipts for the club dinners fell off to a large amount. Here, in
the "Corner," as they called it, round Kinglake would be Hayward,
Drummond Wolff, Massey, Oliphant, Edward Twisleton, Strzelecki,
Storks, Venables, Wyke, Bunbury, Gregory, American Ticknor, and a
few more; Sir W. Stirling Maxwell, when in Scotland, sending
hampers of pheasants to the company. "Hurried to the Athenaeum for
dinner," says Ticknor in 1857, "and there found Kinglake and Sir
Henry Rawlinson, to whom were soon added Hayward and Stirling. We
pushed our tables together and had a jolly dinner. . . . To the
Athenaeum; and having dined pleasantly with Merivale, Kinglake, and
Stirling, I hurried off to the House." In later years, when his
voice grew low and his hearing difficult, he preferred that the
diners should resolve themselves into little groups, assigning to
himself a tete-a-tete, with whom at his ease he could unfold

No man ever fought more gallantly the encroachments of old age--on
sut etre jeune jusque dans ses vieux jours. At seventy-four years
old, staying with a friend at Brighton, he insisted on riding over
to Rottingdean, where Sir Frederick Pollock was staying. "I
mastered," he said, in answer to remonstrances, "I mastered the
peculiarities of the Brighton screw before you were born, and have
never forgotten them." Vaulting into his saddle he rode off,
returning with a schoolboy's delight at the brisk trot he had found
practicable when once clear of the King's Road. Long after his
hearing had failed, his sight become grievously weakened, and his
limbs not always trustworthy, he would never allow a cab to be
summoned for him after dinner, always walking to his lodgings. But
he had to give up by and by his daily canter in Rotten Row, and
more reluctantly still his continental travel. Foreign railways
were closed to him by the Salle d'Attente; he could not stand
incarceration in the waiting-rooms.

The last time he crossed the Channel was at the close of the
Franco-Prussian war, on a visit to his old friend M. Thiers, then
President. It was a dinner to deputies of the Extreme Left, and
Kinglake was the only Englishman; "so," he said, "among the
servants there was a sort of reasoning process as to my identity,
ending in the conclusion, 'il doit etre Sir Dilke.'" Soon the
inference was treated as a fact; and in due sequence came newspaper
paragraphs declaring that the British Ambassador had gravely
remonstrated with the President for inviting Sir Charles Dilke to
his table. Then followed articles defending the course taken by
the President, and so for some time the ball was kept up. The
remonstrance of the Ambassador was a myth, Lord Lyons was a friend
of Sir Charles; but the latter was suspect at the time both in
England and France; in England for his speeches and motion on the
Civil List; in France, because, with Frederic Harrison, he had
helped to get some of the French Communists away from France; and
the French Government was watching him with spies. In Sir
Charles's motion Kinglake took much interest, refusing to join in
the cry against it as disloyal. Sir Charles, he said, spoke no
word against the Queen; and only brought the matter before the
House because challenged to repeat in Parliament the statements he
had made in the country. As a matter of policy he thought it
mistaken: "Move in such a matter openly, and party discipline
compels your defeat; bring pressure to bear on a Cabinet, some of
its members are on your side, and you may gain your point." Sir
Charles's speech was calmly argumentative, and to many minds
convincing; it provoked a passionate reply from Gladstone; and when
Mr. Auberon Herbert following declared himself a Republican, a
tumult arose such as in those pre-Milesian days had rarely been
witnessed in the House. But the wisdom of Kinglake's counsel is
sustained by the fact that many years afterwards, as a result of
more private discussion, Mr. Gladstone pronounced his conversion to
the two bases of the motion, publicity, and the giving of the State
allowance to the head of the family rather than, person by person,
to the children and grandchildren of the Sovereign. Action
pointing in this direction was taken in 1889 and 1901 on the advice
of Tory ministers.

Amongst Frenchmen of the highest class, intellectually and
socially, he had many valued friends, keeping his name on the
"Cosmopolitan" long after he had ceased to visit it, since "one
never knows when the distinguished foreigner may come upon one, and
of such the Cosmo is the London Paradise." But he used to say that
in the other world a good Frenchman becomes an Englishman, a bad
Englishman becomes a Frenchman. He saw in the typical Gaul a
compound of the tiger and the monkey; noted their want of
individuality, their tendency to go in flocks, their susceptibility
to panic and to ferocity, to the terror that makes a man kill
people, and "the terror that makes him lie down and beg." We
remember, too, his dissection of St. Arnaud, as before all things a
type of his nation; "he impersonated with singular exactness the
idea which our forefathers had in their minds when they spoke of
what they called 'a Frenchman;' for although (by cowing the rich
and by filling the poor with envy), the great French Revolution had
thrown a lasting gloom on the national character, it left this one
man untouched. He was bold, gay, reckless, vain; but beneath the
mere glitter of the surface there was a great capacity for
administrative business, and a more than common willingness to take
away human life."

"I relish," Kinglake said in 1871, "the spectacle of Bismarck
teaching the A B C of Liberal politics to the hapless French. His
last mot, they tell me, is this. Speaking of the extent to which
the French Emperor had destroyed his own reputation and put an end
to the worship of the old Napoleon, he said: 'He has killed
himself and buried his uncle.'" Again, in 1874, noting the contre
coup upon France resulting from the Bismarck and Arnim despatches,
he said: "What puzzles the poor dear French is to see that truth
and intrepid frankness consist with sound policy and consummate
wisdom. How funny it would be, if the French some day, as a
novelty, or what they would call a caprice, were to try the effect
of truth; "though not naturally honest," as Autolycus says, "were
to become so by chance."

He thought M. Gallifet dans sa logique in liking the Germans and
hating Bismarck; for the Germans, in having their own way, would
break up into as many fragments as the best Frenchman could desire,
and Bismarck is the real suppressor of France. Throughout the
Franco-Prussian war he sided strongly with the Prussians, refusing
to dine in houses where the prevailing sympathy with France would
make him unwelcome as its declared opponent; but he felt "as a
nightmare" the attack on prostrate Paris, "as a blow" the
capitulation of Metz; denouncing Gambetta and his colleagues as
meeting their disasters only with slanderous shrieks, "possessed by
the spirit of that awful Popish woman." Bismarck as a statesman he
consistently admired, and deplored his dismissal. I see, he said,
all the peril implied by Bismarck's exit, and the advent of his
ambitious young Emperor. It is a transition from the known to the
unknown, from wisdom, perhaps, to folly.

His Crimean volumes continued to appear; in 1875, 1880, finally in
1887; while the Cabinet Edition was published in 1887-8. This last
contained three new Prefaces; in Vol. I. as we have seen, the
memorial of Nicholas Kireeff; in Vol. II. the latter half of the
original Preface to Vol. I., cancelled thence at Madame Novikoff's
request, though now carefully modified so as to avoid anything
which might irritate Russia at a moment when troubles seemed to be
clearing away. In his Preface to Vol. VII. he had three objects,
to set right the position of Sir E. Hamley, who had been neglected
in the despatches; to demolish his friend Lord Bury, who had
"questioned my omniscience" in the "Edinburgh Review"; and to
exonerate England at large from absurd self-congratulations about
the "little Egypt affair," the blame of such exaggeration resting
with those whom he called State Showmen.

Silent to acquaintances about the progress of his work, he was
communicative to his few intimates, though never reading aloud
extracts or allowing them to be seen. In 1872 he would speak
pathetically of his "Crimean muddle," perplexed, as he well might
be, by the intricacies of Inkerman. Asked if he will not introduce
a Te Deum on the fall of Louis Napoleon, he answered that to write
without the stimulus of combat would be a task beyond his energy;
"when I took the trouble to compose that fourteenth chapter, the
wretched Emperor and his gang were at the height of their power in
Europe and the world; but now!" He was insatiate as to fresh facts:
utilized his acquaintance with Todleben, whom he had first met on
his visit to England in 1864; sought out Prince Ourusoff at a later
time, and inserted particulars gleaned from him in Vol. IX.,
Chapter V.

In 1875 he told Madame Novikoff that his task was done so far as
Inkerman was concerned, and was proud to think that he had rescued
from oblivion the heroism of the Russian troops in what he calls
the "Third Period" of the great fight, ignored as it was by all
Russian historians of the war. He made fruitless inquiries after a
paper said to have been left behind him by Skobeleff, explaining
that "India is a cherry to be eaten by Russia, but in two bites";
it was contrary to the general's recorded utterances and probably
apocryphal. Russophobe as regarded Turkey, he sneered at England's
sentimental support of nationalities as "Platonic": a capital
epithet he called it, and envied the Frenchman who applied it to
us, declaring that it had turned all the women against us. He was
moved by receiving Korniloff's portrait with a kind message from
the dead hero's family, seeing in the features a confirmation of
the ideal which he had formed in his own mind and had tried to
convey to others. Readers of his book will recall the fine tribute
to Korniloff's powers, and the description of his death, in
Chapters VI. and XIII. of Vol. IV. (Cabinet Edition).

Many of his comments on current events are preserved in the notes
or in the memories of his friends. Sometimes these were
characteristically cynical. He ridiculed the newspaper parade of
national sympathy with the Prince of Wales's illness: "We are
represented as all members of the royal family, and all in family
hysterics." Dizzy's orientalization of Queen Victoria into an
Empress angered him, as it angered many more. The last Empress
Regnant, he said, was Catherine II. and it seems to be thought that
by advising the Queen to take that great monarch's title, we shall
exercise a wholesome influence on the morals of our women. He
would quote Byron's

"Russia's mighty Empress
Behaved no better than a common sempstress;"

"there was an old-fashioned sacredness, which, however foolish
intrinsically, was still useful, in our title of 'The Queen'; nor
do we see the policy of adding a Supreme de Volaille to the bread
and wine of our Sacrament."

He chuckled over the indignation of the haute volee, when on the
visit to England of President Grant's daughter in 1872, Americans
in London sent out cards of invitation headed "To meet Miss Grant,"
as at a profane imitation of a practice hitherto confined to
royalties; laughing not at the legitimate American mimicry of
European consequence, but at the silly formalists in Society who
fumed over the imagined presumption. Consulted by an invalid as to
the charm of Ostend for a seaside residence, he limited it to
persons of gregarious habits; "the people are all driven down to
the beach like a flock of sheep in the morning, and in the evening
they are all driven back to their folds." He reported a feeble
drama written by his ancient idol, Lord Stratford de Redcliffe; "it
is a painful thing to see a man of his quality and of his age
unduly detained in the world; when the Emperor Nicholas died, the
Eltchi lost his raison d'etre." He disparaged the wild fit of
morality undergone by the "Pall Mall Gazette" during the scandalous
"Maiden Tribute" revelation, pronouncing its protegees to be
"clever little devils." He was greatly startled by Gortschakoff's
famous circular, annulling the Black Sea clause in the Treaty of
Paris, and much relieved by Bismarck's dexterous interposition,
which saved the susceptibility of Europe, and especially of
England, by yielding as a favour to the demand of Russia what no
one was in a position to refuse; but he maintained, and Lord
Stratford agreed with him, that Gortschakoff's precipitate act was
governed by circumstances never revealed to mankind. He learned,
too, that it caused the Chancellor to be deconsidere in high
Russian circles; he was called "un Narcisse qui se mire dans son
encrier." Kinglake used to say that in conceding the right of the
Sultan to exclude any war-flag from the Bosphorus and the
Dardanelles, Russia was treating Turkey as a bag-fox, to be gently
hunted occasionally, but not mangled or killed; and he felt keenly
the ridicule resting on the allies, who were compelled to surrender
the neutralization purchased at the cost of so much blood and
treasure. He watched with much amusement the restoration of
Turkish self-confidence. "Turkey believes that he is no longer a
sick man, and is turning all his doctors out of the house, to the
immense astonishment of the English doctor, so conscious of his own
rectitude that he cannot understand being sent off with the quacks.
You know in our beautiful Liturgy we have a prayer for the Turks;
it looks as if our supplications had become successful." His
interest in Turkey never flagged. "I am in a great fright," he
said in 1877, "about my dear Turks, because Russia gives virtual
command of the army before Plevna to Todleben, a really great homme
de guerre."

Russophobia was at that time so strong in London that Madame
Novikoff hesitated to visit England, and he himself feared that she
might find it uncomfortable. Her alarm, however, was ridiculed by
Hayward, "most faithful of the Russianisers, ready to do battle for
Russia at any moment, declaring her to be quite virtuous, with no
fault but that of being incomprise." But he groaned over the
humiliation of England under Russia's bold stroke, noting
frequently a decay of English character which he ascribed to
chronic causes. The Englishman taken separately, he said, seems
much the same as he used to be; but there is a softening of the
aggregate brain which affects Englishmen when acting together. He
hailed the great Liberal victory of 1880, and watched with
interest, as one behind the scenes, the negotiations which led to
Lord Hartington's withdrawal and Mr. Gladstone's resumption of
power; for in these his friend Hayward was an active go-between,
removing by his tact and frankness "hitches" which might otherwise
have been disastrous. He thought W. E. Forster's attack on Mr.
Gladstone's Irish policy in 1882 ill-managed for his own position,
his famous speech not sufficiently "clenching." Had he separated
from his chief on broader grounds, refusing complicity with a
Minister who consented to parley with the imprisoned Irishmen, he
would, Kinglake thought, have occupied a highly commanding
position. At present his difference from his colleagues was one
only of degree.

He was once beguiled, amongst friends very intimate, into telling a
dream. He dreamed that he was attending an anatomical lecture--
which, as a fact, he had never done--and that his own body, from
which he found himself entirely separated, was the dissected
subject on which the lecturer discoursed. The body lay on a table
beside the lecturer, but he himself, his entity, was at the other
end of the room, on the furthest or highest of a set of benches
raised one above the other as at a theatre. He imagined himself in
a vague way to be disagreeing with the lecturer; but the strongest
impression on his mind was annoyance at being so badly placed, so
far from the professor and from his own body that he could not see
or hear without an effort. The dream, he pointed out, showed this
curious fact, that without any conscious design or effort of the
will a man may conceive himself to be in perfect possession of his
identity, whilst separated from his own body by a distance of
several feet. "The highest concept," said Jowett, "which man forms
of himself is as detached from the body." ("Life," ii. 241.) The
lecture-room which he imagined was one of the lower school-rooms at
Eton, with which he had been familiar in early days.

After Hayward's death in 1884, his own habits began to change. He
still dined at the Athenaeum "corner," but increasing deafness
began to make society irksome, and, his solitary meal ended, he
spent his evenings reading in the Library. By-and-by that too
became impossible. His voice grew weak, throat and tongue were
threatened with disease. In 1888 he went to Brighton with a nurse,
returned to rooms on Richmond Hill, then to Bayswater Terrace. An
operation was performed and he seemed to recover, but relapsed.
Old friends tended him: Madame Novikoff, Mr. Froude and Mr. Lecky,
Madame de Quaire and Mrs. Brookfield, Lord Mexborough his ancient
fellow-traveller, Mrs. Craven, Sir William and Lady Gregory, with a
few more, cheered him by their visits so long as he was able to
bear them; and his brother and sister, Dr. and Mrs. Hamilton
Kinglake, were with him at the end. Patient to the last, kind and
gentle to all about him, he passed away quietly on New Year's Day,

"being merry-hearted,
Shook hands with flesh and blood, and so departed."

His remains were cremated at Woking, after a special service at
Christchurch, Lancaster Gate, attended by Dr. and Mrs. Kinglake
with their son Captain Kinglake, the Duke of Bedford, Mr. and Mrs.
Lecky, Mrs. W. H. Brookfield and her son Charles.

No good portrait of him has been published. That prefixed to
Blackwood's "Eothen" of 1896 was furnished by Dr. Kinglake, who,
however, looked upon it as unsatisfactory. The "Not an M.P." of
"Vanity Fair," 1872, is a grotesque caricature. The photograph
here reproduced (p. 128), by far the best likeness extant, he gave
to Madame Novikoff in 1870, receiving hers in return, but
pronouncing the transaction "an exchange between the personified
months of May and November." The face gives expression to the shy
aloofness which, amongst strangers, was characteristic of him
through life. He had even a horror of hearing his name pealed out
by servants, and came early to parties that the proclamation might
be achieved before as few auditors as possible. Visiting the newly
married husband of his friend Adelaide Kemble, and being the first
guest to arrive, he encountered in Mr. Sartoris a host as
contentedly undemonstrative as himself. Bows passed, a seat by the
fire was indicated, he sat down, and the pair contemplated one
another for ten minutes in absolute silence, till the lady of the
house came in, like the prince in "The Sleeping Beauty," though not
by the same process, to break the charm. He gave up calling at a
house where he was warmly appreciated, because father, mother,
daughter, bombarded him with questions. "I never came away without
feeling sure that I had in some way perjured myself."

On his shyness waited swiftly ensuing boredom; if his neighbour at
table were garrulous or banale, his face at once betrayed
conversational prostration; a lady who often watched him used to
say that his pulse ought to be felt after the first course; and
that if it showed languor he should be moved to the side of some
other partner. "He had great charm," writes to me another old
friend, "in a quiet winning way, but was 'dark' with rough and
noisy people." So it came to pass that his manner was threefold;
icy and repellent with those who set his nerves on edge; good-
humoured, receptive, intermittently responsive in general and
congenial company; while, at ease with friends trusted and beloved,
the lines of the face became gracious, indulgent, affectionate, the
sourire des yeux often inexpressibly winning and tender.
"Kinglake," says Eliot Warburton in his unpublished diary, "talked
to us to-day about his travels; pessimistic and cynical to the rest
of the world, he is always gentle and kind to us." To this dear
friend he was ever faithful, wearing to the day of his death an
octagonal gold ring engraved "Eliot. Jan: 1852." He would never
play the raconteur in general company, for he had a great horror of
repeating himself, and, latterly, of being looked upon as a bore by
younger men; but he loved to pour out reminiscences of the past to
an audience of one or two at most: "Let an old man gather his
recollections and glance at them under the right angle, and his
life is full of pantomime transformation scenes." The chief
characteristic of his wit was its unexpectedness; sometimes acrid,
sometimes humorous, his sayings came forth, like Topham Beauclerk's
in Dr. Johnson's day, like Talleyrand's in our own, poignant
without effort. His calm, gentle voice, contrasted with his
startling caustic utterance, reminded people of Prosper Merimee:
terse epigram, felicitous apropos, whimsical presentment of the
topic under discussion, emitted in a low tone, and without the
slightest change of muscle:

"All the charm of all the Muses
Often flowering in a lonely word." {25}

Questions he would suavely and often wittily parry or repel: to an
unhistorical lady asking if he remembered Madame Du Barry, he said,
"my memory is very imperfect as to the particulars of my life
during the reign of Lous XV. and the Regency; but I know a lady who
has a teapot which belonged, she says, to Madame Du Barry." Madame
Novikoff, however, records his discomfiture at the query of a
certain Lady E-, who, when all London was ringing with his first
Crimean volumes, asked him if he were not an admirer of Louis
Napoleon. "Le pauvre Kinglake, decontenance, repondit tout bas
intimide comme un enfant qu'on met dates le coin: Oui--non--pas

He had no knowledge of or liking for music. Present once by some
mischance at a matinee musicale, he was asked by the hostess what
kind of music he preferred. His preference, he owned, was for the
drum. One thinks of the "Bourgeois Gentilhomme," "la trompette
marine est un instrument qui me plait, el qui est harmonieux"; we
are reminded, too, of Dean Stanley, who, absolutely tone-deaf, and
hurrying away whenever music was performed, once from an adjoining
room in his father's house heard Jenny Lind sing "I know that my
Redeemer liveth." He went to her shyly, and told her that she had
given him an idea of what people mean by music. Once before, he
said in all seriousness, the same feeling had come over him, when
before the palace at Vienna he had heard a tattoo rendered by four
hundred drummers.

Kinglake used to regret the disuse of duelling, as having impaired
the higher tone of good breeding current in his younger days, and
even blamed the Duke of Wellington for proscribing it in the army.
He had himself on one occasion sent a cartel, and stood waiting for
his adversary, like Sir Richard Strachan at Walcheren, eight days
on the French coast; but the adversary never came. Hayward once
referred to him, as a counsellor, and if necessary a second, a
quarrel with Lord R-. Lord R-'s friend called on him, a Norfolk
squire, "broad-faced and breathing port wine," after the fashion of
uncle Phillips in "Pride and Prejudice," who began in a boisterous
voice, "I am one of those, Mr. Kinglake, who believe R- to be a
gentleman." In his iciest tones and stoniest manner Kinglake
answered: "That, Sir, I am quite willing to assume." The effect,
he used to say, as he told and acted the scene, was magical; "I had
frozen him sober, and we settled everything without a fight." Of
all his friends Hayward was probably the closest; an association of
discrepancies in character, manner, temperament, not complementary,
but opposed and hostile; irreconcilable, one would say, but for the
knowledge that in love and friendship paradox reigns supreme.
Hayward was arrogant, overbearing, loud, insistent, full of strange
oaths and often unpardonably coarse; "our dominant friend,"
Kinglake called him; "odious" is the epithet I have heard commonly
bestowed upon him by less affectionate acquaintances. Kinglake was
reserved, shy, reticent, with the high breeding, grand manner,
quiet urbanity, grata protervitas, of a waning epoch; restraint,
concentration, tact of omission, dictating alike his silence and
his speech; his well-weighed words "crystallizing into epigrams as
they touched the air." {26} When Hayward's last illness came upon
him in 1884, Kinglake nursed him tenderly; spending the morning in
his friend's lodgings at 8, St. James's Street, the house which
Byron occupied in his early London days; and bringing on the latest
bulletin to the club. The patient rambled towards the end; "we
ought to be getting ready to catch the train that we may go to my
sister's at Lyme." Kinglake quieted his sick friend by an assurance
that the servants, whom he would not wish to hurry, were packing.
"On no account hurry the servants, but still let us be off." The
last thought which he articulated while dying was, "I don't exactly
know what it is, but I feel it is something grand." "Hayward is
dead," Kinglake wrote to a common friend; "the devotion shown to
him by all sorts and conditions of men, and, what is better, of
women, was unbounded. Gladstone found time to be with him, and to
engage him in a conversation of singular interest, of which he has
made a memorandum."

Another of Kinglake's life-long familiars was Charles Skirrow,
Taxing Master in Chancery, with his accomplished wife, from whose
memorable fish dinners at Greenwich he was seldom absent, adapting
himself no less readily to their theatrical friends--the Bancrofts,
Burnand, Toole, Irving--than to the literary set with which he was
more habitually at home. He was religiously loyal to his friends,
speaking of them with generous admiration, eagerly defending them
when attacked. He lauded Butler Johnstone as the most gifted of
the young men in the House of Commons; would not allow Bernal
Osborne to be called untrue; "he offends people if you like, but he
is never false or hollow." A clever sobriquet fathered on him,
burlesquing the monosyllabic names of a well-known diarist and
official, he repelled indignantly. "He is my friend, and had I
been guilty of the jeu, I should have broken two of my
commandments; that which forbids my joking at a friend's expense,
and that which forbids my fashioning a play upon words." He
entreated Madame Novikoff to visit and cheer Charles Lever, dying
at Trieste; deeply lamented Sir H. Bulwer's death: "I used to
think his a beautiful intellect, and he was wonderfully simpatico
to me." But he was shy of condoling with bereaved mourners,
believing words used on such occasions to be utterly untrue. He
loved to include husband and wife in the same meed of admiration,
as in the case of Dean Stanley and Lady Augusta, or of Sir Robert
and Lady Emily Peel. Peel, he said, has the RADIANT quality not
easy to describe; Lady Emily is always beauteous, bright,
attractive. Lord Stanhope he praised as a historian, paying him
the equivocal compliment that his books were much better than his
conversation. So, too, he qualified his admiration of Lady
Ashburton, dwelling on her beauty, silver voice, ready enthusiasm
apt to disperse itself by flying at too many objects.

He was wont to speak admiringly of Lord Acton, relating how, a
Roman Catholic, yet respecting enlightenment and devoted to books,
he once set up and edited a "Quarterly Review," with a notion of
reconciling the Light and the Dark as well as he could; but the
"Prince of Darkness, the Pope," interposed, and ordered him to stop
the "Review." He was compelled to obey; not, he told people, on
any religious ground, but because relations and others would have
made his life a bore to him if he had been contumacious against the
Holy Father.

Kinglake was strongly attracted by W. E. Forster, a "rough
diamond," spoken of at one time as a possible Prime Minister.
Beginning life, he said, as a Quaker, with narrow opinions, his
vigour of character and brain-power shook them off. Powerful,
robust, and perfectly honest, yet his honesty inflicted on him a
doubleness of view which caused him to be described as engaging his
two hands in two different pursuits. His estimate of Sir R. Morier
would have gladdened Jowett's heart; he loved him as a private
friend; eulogized his public qualities; rejoiced over his
appointment as Ambassador at St. Petersburg, seeing in him a
diplomatist with not only a keen intellect and large views, but
vibrating with the warmth, animation, friendliness, that are
charmingly un-diplomatic. Of Carlyle, his life-long, though not
always congenial intimate, he used to speak as having great graphic
power, but being essentially a humourist; a man who, with those he
could trust, never pretended to be in earnest, but used to roar
with glorious laughter over the fun of his own jeremiads; "so far
from being a prophet he is a bad Scotch joker, and knows himself to
be a wind-bag." He blamed Froude's revelations of Carlyle in "The
Reminiscences," as injurious and offensive. Froude himself he
often likened to Carlyle; the thoughts of both, he said, ran in the
same direction, but of the two, Froude was by far the more
intellectual man.

Staunch friend to the few, polite, though never effusive, to the
many, he also nourished strong antipathies. The appearance in
Madame Novikoff's rooms of a certain Scotch bishop invariably drove
him out of them, "Peter Paul, Bishop of Claridge's," he called him.
To Von Beust (the Austrian Chancellor), who spoke English in a
rapid half-intelligible falsetto, he gave the name of Mirliton
(penny trumpet). His allusions to Mirliton and to the Bishop
frequently mystified Madame Novikoff's guests. For he loved to
talk in cypher. Canon Warburton, kindly searching on my behalf his
brother Eliot's journals, tells me that he and Kinglake, meeting
almost daily, lived in a cryptic world of jokes, confidences,
colloquialisms, inexplicable to all but their two selves.

He cordially disliked "The Times" newspaper, alleging instances of
the unfairness with which its columns had been used to spite and
injure persons who had offended it, chuckling over Hayward's
compact anathema,--"'The Times,' which as usual of late supplied
its lack of argument and proof by assumption, misrepresentation,
and personality." He thought that its attacks upon himself had
helped his popularity. "One of the main causes," he said in 1875,
"of the interest which people here were good enough to take in my
book was the fight between 'The Times' and me. In 1863 it raged,
in 1867 it was renewed with great violence, and now I suppose the
flame kindles once more, though probably with diminished strength.
In 1863 the storm of opinion generally waxed fierce against me, but
now, as I hear, 'The Times' is alone, journals of all politics
being loud in my praise. But I never look at any comment on my
volumes till long afterwards, and I never in my life wrote to a
newspaper." Once, when Chenery, the editor, came to join the table
at the Athenaeum where he and Mr. Cartwright were dining, Kinglake
rose, and removed to another part of the room. "The Times" had
inserted a statement that Madame Novikoff was ordered to leave
England, and he thus publicly resented it. "So unlike me," he
said, relating the story, "but somehow a savagery as of youth came
over me in my ancient days; it was like being twenty years old
again." It came out, however, that "our indiscreet friend Froude"
had written something which justified the paragraph, and Kinglake
sent his amende to Chenery, with whom ordinarily he was on most
friendly terms.

He disliked Irishmen "in the lump," saying that human nature is the
same everywhere except in Ireland. Parnell he personally admired,
though hating Home Rule; and stigmatized as gross hypocrisy the
desertion of him by Liberals after the divorce trial. He was wont
to speak irreverently of Lord Beaconsfield, whom he had known well
at Lady Blessington's in early days. He would have found himself
in accord with Huxley, who used to thank God, his friend Mr. Fiske
tells us, that he had never bowed the knee either to Louis Napoleon
or Benjamin Disraeli. He poured scorn on the Treaty of Berlin.
Russia, he said, defeating the Turks in war, has defeated
Beaconsfield in diplomacy. If Englishmen understood such things
they would see that the Congress was a comedy; anyone who will
satisfy himself as to what Russia was really anxious to obtain, and
then look at the Salisbury-Schouvaloff treaty, will see that,
thanks to Beaconsfield's imbecility, Schouvaloff obtained one of
the most signal diplomatic triumphs that was ever won. {27} A
sound entente between Russia and England he thought both possible
and desirable; but conceived it to be rendered difficult by the
want of steadiness and capacity which, for international purposes,
were the real faults of Lord Beaconsfield and Lord Salisbury. He
repeated with much amusement the current anecdote of Lord
Beaconsfield's conquest of Mrs. Gladstone. Meeting her in society,
he was said to have inquired with tenderness after Mr. Gladstone's
health, and then after receiving the loving wife's report of her
William, to have rejoined in his most dulcet tones, "Ah! take care
of him, for he is very VERY precious." He always attributed
Dizzy's popularity to the feeling of Englishmen that he had "shown
them sport," an instinct, he thought, supreme in all departments of
the English mind.

Towards his old schoolfellow Gladstone he never felt quite
cordially, believing, rightly or wrongly, that the great statesman
nourished enmity towards himself. He called him, as has been said,
"a good man in the worst sense of the term, conscientious with a
diseased conscience." He watched with much amusement, as
illustrating the moral twist in Gladstone's temperament, the
"Colliery explosion," as it was called, when Sir R. Collier, the
Attorney-General, was appointed to a Puisne Judgeship, which he
held only for a day or two, in order to qualify him for a seat on a
new Court of Appeal; together with a very similar trick, by which
Ewelme Rectory, tenable only by an Oxonian, was given to a
Cambridge man. The responsibility was divided between Gladstone
and Lord Hatherley the Chancellor, with the mutual idea apparently
that each of the two became thereby individually innocent. But Sir
F. Pollock, in his amusing "Reminiscences," recalls the amicable
halving of a wicked word between the Abbess of Andouillet and the
Novice Margarita in "Tristram Shandy." It answered in neither
case. "'They do not understand us,' cried Margarita. 'BUT THE
DEVIL DOES,' said the Abbess of Andouillet." "The Collier scandal
narrowly escaped by two votes in the Lords, twenty-seven in the
Commons, a Parliamentary vote of censure, and gave unquestionably a
downward push to the Gladstone Administration. Mr. Gladstone, on
the other hand, cordially admired Kinglake's speeches, saying that
few of those he had heard in Parliament could bear so well as his
the test of publication.

To the great Prime Minister's absolute fearlessness he did full
justice, as one of the finest features in his character; and loved
to quote an epigram by Lord Houghton, to whom Gladstone had
complained in a moment of weariness that he led the life of a dog.
"Yes," said Houghton, "but of a St. Bernard dog, ever busied in
saving life." He loved to contrast the twofold biographical
paradox in the careers of the two famous rivals, Gladstone and
Disraeli; the dreaming Tory mystic, incarnation of Oxford
exclusiveness and Puseyite reserve, passing into the Radical
iconoclast; the Jew clerk in a city lawyer's office, "bad specimen
of an inferior dandy," coming to rule the proudest aristocracy and
lead the most fastidious assembly in the world.

He was not above broad farce when the fancy seized him. At the
time when a certain kind of nonsense verse was popular, he, with
Sir Noel Paton and others, added not a few facetious sonnets to
Edward Lear's book, which lay on Madame Novikoff's table. His
authorship is betrayed by the introduction of familiar
Somersetshire names, Taunton, Wellington, Curry Rivel, Creech,
Trull, Wilton:

"There was a young lady of Wilton,
Who read all the poems of Milton:
And, when she had done,
She said, 'What bad fun!'
This prosaic young lady of Wilton."

There were many more, but this will perhaps suffice; ex ungue
leonem. They were addressed to the "Fair Lady of Claridge's,"
Madame Novikoff's hotel when in London, and were signed "Peter
Paul, Bishop of Claridge's."

"There is a fair lady at Claridge's,
Whose smile is more charming to me,
Than the rapture of ninety-nine marriages
Could possibly, possibly, be;--"

is the final dedicatory stanza. It is the gracious fooling of a
philosopher who understood his company. "There are folks," says
Mr. Counsellor Pleydell, "before whom a man should take care how he
plays the fool, because they have either too much malice or too
little wit." Kinglake knew his associates, and was not ashamed
desipere in loco, to frolic in their presence.

One point there was on which he never touched himself or suffered
others to interrogate him, his conception of and attitude towards
the Unseen. He wore his religion as Sir William Gull wore the fur
of his coat, INSIDE. Outwardly he died as he had lived, a Stoic;
that on the most personal and sacred of all topics he should
consult the Silences was in keeping with his idiosyncrasy. Another
famous man, questioned as to his religious creed, made answer that
he believed what all wise men believe. And what do all wise men
believe? "That all wise men keep to themselves?"


{1} When "Heartsease" first appeared, Percy Fotheringham was
believed to be a portrait; but the accomplished authoress in a
letter written not long before her death told me that the character
was wholly imaginary.

{2} Pedigrees are perplexing unless tabulated; so here is
Kinglake's genealogical tree.

| |
+-------------------+ |
| +--------------------+
+--------------+ | |
| | | |
LAKE. ("Eothen.")

{3} "Eothen," p. 33. Reading "Timbuctoo" to-day one is amazed it
should have gained the prize. Two short passages adumbrate the
coming Tennyson, the rest is mystic nonsense. "What do you think
of Tennyson's prize poem?" writes Charles Wordsworth to his brother
Christopher. "Had it been sent up at Oxford, the author would have
had a better chance of spending a few months at a lunatic asylum
than of obtaining the Prize." A current Cambridge story at the
time explained the selection. There were three examiners, the
Vice-Chancellor, a man of arbitrary temper, with whom his juniors
hesitated to disagree; a classical professor unversed in English
Literature; a mathematical professor indifferent to all literature.
The letter g was to signify approval, the letter b to brand it with
rejection. Tennyson's manuscript came from the Vice-Chancellor
scored all over with g's. The classical professor failed to see
its merit, but bowed to the Vice-Chancellor, and added his g. The
mathematical professor could not admire, but since both his
colleagues ordained it, good it must be, and his g made the award
unanimous. The three met soon after, and the Vice-Chancellor, in
his blatant way, attacked the other two for admiring a trashy poem.
"Why," they remonstrated, "you covered it with g's yourself."
"G's," said he, "they were q's for queries; I could not understand
a line of it."

{4} "Enoch Arden," p. 34.

{5} "Eothen," p. 169. Reprint by Bell and Sons, 1898.

{6} "Eothen," p. 17.

{7} His deferential regard for army rank was like that of Johnson
for bishops. Great was his indignation when the "grotesque
Salvation Army," as he called it, adopted military nomenclature.
"I would let those ragamuffins call themselves saints, angels,
prophets, cherubim, Olympian gods and goddesses if they like; but
their pretension in taking the rank of officers in the army is to
me beyond measure repulsive."

{8} "Eothen," p. 190 in first edition. It was struck out in the
fourth edition.

{9} "Eothen," p. 18. Reprint by Bell and Sons, 1898.

{10} He is very fond of this word; it occurs eleven times.

{11} "Quarterly Review," December, 1844.

{12} "Eothen," p. 46.

{13} Poitier's "Vaudeville."

{14} One characteristic anecdote he omits. Two French officers
were attached to our headquarters; and the staff were partly
embarrassed and partly amused by Lord Raglan's inveterate habit,
due to old Peninsular associations, of calling the enemy "the
French" in the presence of our foreign guests.

{15} Some of us can recall the lines in which Sir G. Trevelyan
commemorated "The Owl's" nocturnal flights:

"When at sunset, chill and dark,
Sunset thins the swarming park,
Bearing home his social gleaning -
Jests and riddles fraught with meaning,
Scandals, anecdotes, reports, -
Seeks The Owl a maze of courts
Which, with aspect towards the west,
Fringe the street of Sainted James,
Where a warm, secluded nest
As his sole domain he claims;
From his wing a feather draws,
Shapes for use a dainty nib,
Pens his parody or squib;
Combs his down and trims his claws,
And repairs where windows bright
Flood the sleepless Square with light."

{16} Greville, vii. 223, quotes from a letter written after
Inkerman to the Prince Consort by Colonel Steele, saying "that he
had no idea how great a mind Raglan really had, but that he now saw
it, for in the midst of distresses and difficulties of every kind
in which the army was involved, he was perfectly serene and

{17} "Go quietly" might have been his motto: even on horseback he
seemed never to be in a hurry. Airey used to come in from their
rides round the outposts shuddering with cold, and complaining that
the Chief would never move his horse out of a walk. "I daresay,"
said Carlyle, "Lord Raglan will rise quite quietly at the last
trump, and remain entirely composed during the whole day, and show
the most perfect civility to both parties."

{18} The first death! out of how many he nowhere reckons: he
shrinks from estimates of carnage, and we thank him for it. But an
accomplished naturalist tells me that the vulture, a bird unknown
in the Crimea before hostilities began, swarmed there after the
Alma fight, and remained till the war was over, disappearing
meanwhile from the whole North African littoral.

{19} "D-n your eyes!" he said once, in a moment of irritation, to
his attache, Mr. Hay. "D-n your Excellency's eyes!" was the
answer, delivered with deep respect but with sufficient emphasis.
Dismissed on the spot, the candid attache went in great anger to
pack up, but was followed after a time by Lady Canning, habitual
peacemaker in the household, who besought him if not to apologize
at least to bid his Chief good-bye. After much persuasion he
consented. "Hardly had he entered the room when Sir Stratford had
him by the hand. 'My dear Hay, this will never do; what a devil of
a temper you have!' The two were firmer friends than ever after
this" (LANE POOLE'S Life of Lord Stratford, chapter xiii.).

{20} The story of an old quarrel between Sir Stratford Canning and
the then Grand Duke Nicholas at St. Petersburg in 1825 is disproved
by Canning's own statement. The two met once only in their lives,
at a purely formal reception at Paris in 1814.

{21} La Femme was a "Miss" or "Mrs." Howard. She followed Louis
Napoleon to France in 1848, and lived openly with him as his
mistress. In the once famous "Letters of an Englishman" we are
told how shortly after the December massacre the elite of English
visitors in Paris were not ashamed to dine at her house in the
President's company: and in 1860, Mrs. Simpson, in France with her
father, Nassau Senior, found her, decorated with the title of
Madame de Beauregard, inhabiting La Celle, near Versailles, once
the abode of Madame de Pompadour, "with the national flag flying
over it, to the great scandal of the neighbourhood."

{22} Bachaumont's criticism of Latour. Lady Dilke's "French
Painters," p. 165.

{23} Here is one of the stanzas:

"L'Autriche--dit-on--et la Russie
Se brouillent pour la Turquie.
Des aujourd'hui il n'en est plus question.
En invitant une femme charmante,
Le Turc--et je l'en complimente -
Est devenu pour nous un trait d'union."

{24} "Blackwood's Magazine," December, 1895, p. 802.

{25} I inserted this quotation before reading the "Etchingham
Letters." Sir Richard would wish me to erase it as hackneyed; but
it applies to Kinglake's talk as accurately as to Virgil's writing,
and I refuse to be defrauded of it.

{26} This delightful phrase is Lady Gregory's. One would wish,
like Lord Houghton, though suppressing his presumptuous rider, to
have been its author.

{27} Of course Kinglake was not alone in this opinion. It was
voiced in a delightful jeu d'esprit, now forgotten, which it is
worth while to reproduce:


"The following Latin poem, from the pen of the well-known German
poet, Gustave Schwetschke, was distributed by Prince Bismarck's
special request amongst the Plenipotentiaries immediately after the
last sitting on Saturday:

"'Gaudeamus igitur
Socii congressus,
Post dolores bellicosos,
Post labores gloriosos,
Nobis fit decessus.

"'Ubi sunt, qui ante nos
Quondam consedere,
Viennenses, Parisienses
Tot per annos, tot per menses?
Frustra decidere.

"'Mundus heu! vult decipi,
Sed non decipiatur,
Non plus ultra inter gentes
Litigantes et frementes
Manus conferatur.

'Vivat Pax! et comitent
Dii nunc congressum,
Ceu Deus ex machina
Ipsa venit Cypria
Roborans successum.

"'Pereat discordia!
Vincat semper litem
Proxenetae probitas, {27a}
Fides, spes, et charitas,
Gaudeamus item!

"G. S."

(From the "Pall Mall Gazette.")

"A correspondent informs us that the version given in 'The
Standard' of yesterday of the congratulatory ode ('Gaudeamus
igitur,' etc.) addressed to the Congress by 'the well-known German
poet Gustave Schwetschke,' and 'distributed by Prince Bismarck's
request among the Plenipotentiaries,' is incorrect. The true
version, we are assured, is as follows:

"'Rideamus igitur,
Socii Congressus;
Post dolores bellicosos,
Post labores bumptiosos,
Fit mirandus messus.

"Ubi sunt qui apud nos
Causas litigare,
Moldo-Wallachae frementes,
Graeculi esurientes?
Heu! absquatulare.

"'Ubi sunt provinciae
Quas est laus pacasse?
Totae, totae, sunt partitae:
Has tulerunt Muscovitae,
Illas Count Andrassy.

"'Et quid est quod Angliae
Dedit hic Congressus?
Jus pro aliis pugnandi,
Mortuum vivificandi -
Splendidi successus!

"'Vult Joannes decipi
Et bamboosulatur.
Io Beacche! Quae majestas!
Ostreae reportans testas
Domum gloriatur!'"

"This version, which from internal evidence will be seen to be the
true one, may be roughly Englished thus:

"Let us have our hearty laugh,
Greatest of Congresses!
After days and weeks pugnacious,
After labours ostentatious,
See how big the mess is!

"'Where are those who at our bar
Their demands have stated:
Robbed Roumanians rampaging,
Greeklings with earth-hunger raging?
Where? Absquatulated!

"'Where the lands we've pacified,
With their rebel masses?
All are gone; yes, all up-gobbled:
These the Muscovite has nobbled,
Those are Count Andrassy's.

"'And what does England carry off
To add to her possessions?
The right to wage another's strife,
The right to raise the dead to life -
Glorious concessions!

"'Well, let John Bull bamboozled be
If he's so fond of sells!
Io Beacche! Hark the cheering!
See him home in triumph bearing
BOTH {27b} the oyster shells!'"

{27a} "Der ehrlich Miikler."

{27b} Peace and Honour.

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