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The Autobiography of Christopher Kirkland, Vol. 2. Linton, E. Lynn (Elizabeth Lynn), 1822–1898.
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CHAPTER I.

I WILL go on with my general reminiscences of persons, not keeping strictly to chronology. I became as a child of the house in the family of Captain Maconochie, that great and good inventor of the Mark System. He had then just returned from Norfolk Island—the penal settlement of the penal settlements; the lower deep of the lowest page: 2 depths; that veritable hell upon earth which he had made human and possible. He had been deprived of his governorship by those at home who thought that to provide for the moral improvement of criminals was to offend against justice, which should be simply punitive.

The whole question of prison discipline and the final cause of punishment has undergone revision since then; and it was Captain Maconochie who started the change. He, who after Howard had the most compassion for convicted criminals, had, even more than Howard, breadth of view and administrative capacity. But the grand idea of giving prisoners an interest in their own good conduct, and of making Hope an element in the process of self-redemption, was unpalatable to the official world. The actual system was founded on the basis of punishment pure and simple, plus the deterring of others by example; the method was that of unin- unindividualized page: 3 dividualized and unelastic coercion; and the new view of self-reformation by rewarding voluntary well-doing was looked on as offering an educational premium to vice, and making crime a profitable moral investment. For do not minds follow the law of all the rest? and is it fair to reform criminals and let honest men go wrong for want of better teaching?

It was the same in other things. When Captain Maconochie advocated certainty of detection as more deterring to crime than severity of sentence, he was laughed at as a dreamer; when he said: ‘Reform while you punish, and turn out a possibly useful member of society, rather than a confirmed gaol-bird, sure to come back to his foul roost,’ he was ridiculed as a crazy philanthropist who had lost the just distinction between vice and virtue; when he wished to do away with short-time sentences, he was met with the rights of the ratepayers; and page: 4 everywhere he fell upon the dead wall of negation, and found himself opposed and baffled.

He was one of those men who fail in their own persons, but whose principles take root and fructify—not to their own profit. The Home Office negatived his scheme; but afterwards they allowed Sir Walter Crofton to try his Mark System, modified; and the ticket-of-leave now granted is also only a modification of his more comprehensive idea. It was painful to watch the uphill fight he carried on against inertia here and active opposition there, and to know that all this while a grand truth was being arrested and nullified by prejudice.

His wife, as firmly convinced as he, and as good and sincere and earnest, went for a little in this opposition, because of that fatal quality of exaggeration which makes women such unreasoning partisans and dangerous auxiliaries. Thus, she was an page: 5 ardent homœopathist; and when she visited the sick female prisoners in the borough gaol afterwards given her husband to administer, she slipped surreptitious globules into their pockets, to the discrediting of the orthodox system and the encouragement of rebellion against the appointed healers. Her doings, when the medical authorities discovered them, brought the whole thing down about their ears; but she comforted herself for the loss she had occasioned by the consciousness of the good of her cause; and the sentiment of martyrdom upheld her. She believed too in mesmerism; she was a born proselytizer; and she had that kind of fervour in her conviction which denies honesty to all opponents.

My friends were full of interesting stories about the criminals whom they had tamed, subdued and reformed by kindness; among whom, I remember, figured one notorious ruffian, Jacky-Jacky, who had almost homi- homicidal page: 6 cidal mania. Him they made their gardener; and Mrs. Maconochie spoke of a certain creeping of the flesh when one day she stood alone with Jacky-Jacky by the fruit-trees in their compound—he armed with a bill-hook, and she defenceless. They had a family of delightful boys, of whom the eldest was singularly handsome and good; and Captain Maconochie used often to speak of this young fellow's purifying influence over the roughest of the men, and how they checked their ribaldry in his presence because of respect for his youth and purity, and listened to his Bible-reading without a word that would have shocked a girl.

It was the Christian law of kindness all through, rather than the old hard lex talionis; and it answered so far as the men were concerned. But practical Christianity is the worst investment a modern Christian can make; and to follow the example or obey the precepts of Christ is even more page: 7 disastrous than to doubt His divinity. And so my friends found to their cost.

In those days I held, with these dear people, that capital punishment was a barbarism, and that the ‘worst use to which you can put a man is to hang him.’ Now I am not quite so sure. Life is only valuable for what it gives to the individual or contributes to society; and life-long imprisonment cannot do much for the one nor the other. And as there is always that inevitable ‘must’ at the end, it makes little matter whether it comes a year or two sooner than need have been, when the intrinsic worth of life has gone and there is no more hope for the man himself. I did not think this then. I was too strong, too fully vitalized, to regard death with other feelings than those of dread as well as pity. But when the coloured glass of vigorous youth, through which one looks at the large landscape of life, has been broken, one sees page: 8 things more in reference to the whole, and less with regard to the individual.

But in those olden times we were warm anti-death punishers at my dear friends' house, and just as warm believers in the restoration to righteousness of life for those criminals who were properly directed. We were all humane, religious, believing and unscientific. We had no faith in heredity, and we gave no weight to environment. We believed in mind and soul and spirit; in heavenly influence and divine grace; and we thought that miracles of moral healing could be worked if only a pathway were made for this divine grace to enter and take possession.

If Captain Maconochie had been a less religious man, and if Mrs. Maconochie had been a less logically sincere woman, they would have done better for themselves and their great ideas than they did. The sword of the Lord and of Gideon is a difficult page: 9 weapon to wield at any time; and, on the whole, biological facts and the hard common-sense views of men make more practicable handles than faith in the influx of the Holy Spirit and the answer of God to prayer.

I knew the famous American actress who then divided London into two camps—the one of admirers, the other of detractors. I will not say on which side I am. Things cling about her name which it is as well not to disturb, and the grave, though dumb, is the most potent of all advocates. And she had some superb qualities, if she also had some that were low and mean. Of these last she had jealousy—that lowest and meanest of all in the moral catalogue; and, for another, she had ingratitude, and knew how to kick down, with consummate address, the ladder by which she had mounted a stage higher. Her mother was the vulgarest old woman I have ever seen. I remember a brief conversation with her which ran thus: The page: 10 subject was an underhung, wriggling terrier pup:—

‘My!’ said this old lady, looking curiously at the dog. ‘Why, it's wopper-jawed!’

‘“Wopper-jawed”? What is that?’ I asked.

‘Why, don't you know!—like a wiggler!’

‘But what is a “wiggler”?’ I asked again.

‘Oh my! Not know!—du tell! A wopper-jawed wiggler—just like a pollywog out of a hydrant!’

The first time I heard the expression ‘talking the fifth wheel off a coach’ was from her; and the way in which she used to eat lemons was what she herself would have called ‘a caution.’

Associated with her and her two daughters, in my mind, are a certain medical man and his beautiful young wife. I knew this rather odd, as well as famous American page: 11 triad through them, and so the association comes about. What charming days I used to have with these dear young people! How handsome they both were!—and how young and happy we all were! As for her, she was one of the most beautiful creatures under heaven, and as good as she was lovely. I have seen the whole theatre turn round to look at her, and she could not walk in the street without attracting more attention than she cared for. She had the carriage of a young goddess or an old-time nymph; and her character corresponded, in its fearless truth and unflinching honesty with the wonderful nobility of her bearing. He too was a right good fellow; but though she, alas! is dead, he is alive—and I do not like to mention the names of those still living.

Also I knew the ‘Raffaele-faced young bookseller’ whose hopes were so high and whose aims were so lofty; and in his house page: 12 I met many of those who, then young and unknown, have since become world-famous. Herbert Spencer; Marian Evans—our future incomparable George Eliot; William Smith, or ‘Thorndale’ as he used to be called; Dr. Hodgson; Charles Bray; Dr. Brabant; Edward Pigott;—these were among the stars rising or risen to be found at that house. There too I met Froude, one of our best, if most prejudiced, historians, master of style and eloquent Devil's Advocate as he is; and I remember once seeing Mrs. Gaskell with her beautiful white arms bare to the shoulder, and as destitute of bracelets as were her hands of gloves.

Above all, I remember one special evening when Carlyle and Emerson were there, and each had his own little circle of adorers clustered round him as he harangued and perorated. The two great men did not speak to each other—only each to his own page: 13 special gathering; which was for all the world like a swarm of bees clustered round their queen. I sat apart with that soft-voiced, fair-skinned daughter of Dr. Devise of whom I have spoken before, and wondered at the mental servility of these two groups—a mental servility which I confess was to me more sickening than worshipful.

Morris Moore's newly discovered ‘Raffaele’ was then almost as much a matter of bitter controversy as it has been since; and the recognition of its genuineness got somehow mixed up with party spirit and became a sign of identification. It was engraved by Linton in the Leader newspaper; and perhaps that was the reason why it was taken as a test of Liberalism.

The establishment of that newspaper, by the way, was to all of us ardent youths like the beginning of a moral and intellectual millennium. How ardent and eager we all were! How bravely Thornton Hunt and page: 14 George Henry Lewes and other young lions roared in its columns!—and how confident everyone was that it would supersede the Examiner and the Athenæum, become a monumental success, and transform to its own likeness all divergent public opinion! Oh! those fair false hopes of youth!—those baseless visions of enthusiasm! What ‘strengthless heads’ of dead loves have half the pathos that lies in these dead faiths! What a glorious castle too, we built when the first International Exhibition was reared, and we all believed that the reign of universal peace had begun, and the death-knell of international strife had sounded! And how all these brilliant hopes and iridescent faiths have gone into space, with nothing left as the residuum save disappointment!

About this time came to all of us who were known to be unorthodox a certain private and confidential circular bearing Thornton Hunt's name. It had for its page: 15 object the foundation of a quasi-masonic community—a kind of cryptic church of free-thought, where the unpublished members should be able to recognise each other, and by their aid and counsel support such as were weak before the social trials inevitable to denial. This scheme also fell to the ground, and never went beyond that printed appeal.

With others, I became an intimate in the house of Mrs. Milner Gibson, that large-hearted woman who opened her doors to all the exiled patriots that flocked to England as their only safe asylum, and who was as a crowned Queen wandering through Bohemia. She was one of the most prominent features of London society in her day, and went through the appointed phases of the widest Liberalism, the most marked Bohemianism, the most mystical spiritualism, and the most fervent Catholicism, proper to her kind. But in each and page: 16 all the generous heart, the loving nature, the wide, full charity of divine sympathy and pity, remained unchanged.

At her house I met, in their due time, Mazzini, Louis Blanc, Kossuth, Klapka, Pulszky, the Sicilian exiles—notably the Scalias—to mention only a few of the most famous. But when the well-known floating medium got hold of her, her salon was given up to table-turning and séances, wherein she herself was the most deceived and the most credulous. Great efforts were made to convince me of the truth of the phenomena exhibited. I was young, ardent, and a press-man; hence I should have been so far a valuable ally. But though I went diligently to these séances, and was quite prepared to believe in their genuineness, I never saw anything that might not have been done by trick—neither there nor elsewhere.

I was at this house when the notorious page: 17 levitating medium was said to have floated to the ceiling. The story is simply this. Mr. Hume was in his usual place at the end of the chain of experimenters, where the circular-table touched the jamb of the window—leaving a free space between him and Mademoiselle, the governess, who always sat opposite to him. Our hostess was always on his left hand. The room was almost pitch-dark—lighted only from the distant lamp in the mews, which this window faced. Suddenly Mr. Hume left his seat and came over to where I was sitting. He leaned over my chair and spoke to my neighbour and me, saying that the spirits were preparing something, he did not know what. The next moment we heard the sound of a piece of furniture moving across the room. It was a light chaise longue, which stood by the wall in a line with our chairs.

‘The spirits want me to get on this,’ he page: 18 said; and forthwith he sat down on the couch.

There was a certain man in the company, called Smith, of Peckham, who had been an atheist, but whom Mr. Hume had converted to spiritualism and Christianity. To him this medium was a Christ. He clasped his hands and knelt on the ground.

‘Let me go too!’ he said, praying the Lord rather than making a request to his brother man.

His High Priest gave a rather ungracious assent, and the two moved off; but Smith of Peckham was found to be inconvenient, so was soon sent back to his old place at the table.

There was a large mirror over a console-table at the end of the wall, facing the window; and near to this was a heavy old-fashioned ottoman, with a strong and serviceable centre-piece.

In a short time Mr. Hume said he was page: 19 floating up to the ceiling; and in the dim light of the room we could see that a dark body was between us and the mirror. The voice seemed to ascend, and we heard the sound of a slight scratching. Then the voice came down. Mr. Hume said he had scratched a cross on the ceiling, and called for lights. There was a great hunt for the small grains of plaster on the floor, and the case was recorded in the spiritualist journal as an undoubted instance of floating.

There was nothing to have prevented Mr. Hume from drawing the chaise longue to him by means of a string round the front two legs; moving it by his own feet and muscles; standing on the centre-piece of the ottoman; and, with a knife tied to the end of a stick, scratching a cross on the ceiling. The rest was easy to ventriloquism and certain to credulity.

At other times he showed the hands—luminous hands—which Mademoiselle, the page: 20 governess, said she felt forming themselves in her dress. These hands played with the tassel and strings of the blinds, and were phosphorescent. One, coal-black, was the emblem of superstition; another—covered with what they all said was a spiritual veil or refulgent kind of mask, and a cambric pocket-handkerchief—was the sign of faith. But as no one was allowed to investigate, and as to express doubt would have been impolite, things were received with acclaim by most of those present, and only a few of us had the honesty of silence.

Capable of being made into a useful ally, could I but be caught, Mr. Hume arranged one séance for my benefit. This was the first at which I was present. I must explain the foundations. One of my friends had had a little child of which I had been passionately fond. It had been named after me; I had adopted it for my own; and the whole story was patent to the world. page: 21 At the time of which I write the child was dead, and the mother was a hopeless invalid. By all my own people I had always been called Chris, or Christie. By our hostess and the whole group of her friends, who were mine, and by this group only, I was called Crishna. The child had been christened Christopher, and was called Christie.

In the midst of the usual array of luminous hands, this night, came a round shining thing which Mademoiselle, the governess, and Mr. Hume, the medium, both cried out at once was a child's head. For whom? The guests were numbered, and the spirits rapped when I was indicated. This spiritual child was for me. This was my first personal experience of a thing of this kind, and for the moment I was overcome.

‘This means a little child of whom I was very fond,’ I said in a half-whisper to my neighbour. ‘It was called after me and dedicated to me.’

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‘Yes,’ said Mr. Hume, as if speaking in a dream. He was in a trance. ‘This little child was Crishna on earth, as it is Crishna in heaven, and its mother thanks you in heaven for your loving care of it on earth. She is standing by you now, blessing you and watching over you.’

She was in her own bed, poor body, incapable of either blessing or watching over even herself!

This bad shot saved me from all after danger of credulity, and left me with a clear mind and untroubled senses to watch and weigh all that I saw.

Robert Bell was one of the most convinced of Mr. Hume's dupes. He expatiated warmly on the supernatural power which enabled a pencil to lie—on a clinging velvet cloth—without rolling off when the table was tilted to a certain angle. I tried the experiment at home, and found that by careful manipulation I could tilt my own page: 23 table at even a more acute angle than the medium had done, and that neither the pencil nor the glasses would fall.

When I said this to Robert Bell he was exceedingly angry, and what had been a very pleasant friendship came to an abrupt and sudden end.

Poor old Dr. Ashburner too, had it much at heart to convert me to the faith; and at his house I saw, among others, the medium who writhed like a demoniac when the spirits were writing in red letters on his large white fine-skinned arm a name that should carry conviction to the soul of the unbeliever.

This man had two tricks—that of this skin-writing, which was soon found out; and that of reading with the tips of his fingers the names written on small pieces of paper, folded up into pellets and flung into a heap on the table. This sleight-of-hand was respectable; but I caught the trick, and told page: 24 Dr. Ashburner what I had seen. The dear old man did not believe me and he did believe Mr. Foster, the medium, even after he found out that he had been in prison for felony.

I could fill a volume with my spiritualistic experiences, suspicions, and silent detections of imposture. I have never seen anything whatever that might not have been done by trick and collusion, and I have seen almost all the mediums. Never, anywhere, has there been allowed the smallest investigation, nor have the most elementary precautions been taken against imposture; and the amount of patent falsehood swallowed open-mouthed has been to me a sorry text on which to preach a eulogium on our enlightenment.

Yet all the time I was yearning to believe—to be forced by irrefragable proofs to accept one undoubted authority, which would have ended for ever certain gnawing page: 25 pains. Those proofs never came. On the contrary, with every séance at which I assisted came increased certainty of imposture. And yet, now, at the end of it all, though I have never seen a medium who was not a patent trickster, I believe that there is an uncatalogued and perhaps undeveloped human force, which makes what the Americans call a magnetic man, and which is the substratum of truth underlying the falsehoods of spiritualism, the deceptions of hysteria, and the romances of religious fervour. We have not said the final word yet on the development of man; and this uncatalogued force may be one of the chief factors in the sum of future progress.

So far there may be truth in what we hear; but when heavy women are brought bodily through the air and dropped clean through roofs and walls; when notes fly from India to London; and when spirits page: 26 materialize themselves and put on hair which is made up of cells and fibres and pigments like growing human hair, and dress in clothes well-cut and stitched together with ordinary thread, beside being loaded with Manchester dressing—then, I think, the common-sense of the world should revolt in indignation at these patent falsehoods and frauds, and the weak should be protected from the cruel craft of the unscrupulous.

What will not people believe? I remember poor old Dr. Ashburner telling me a story of how once, when he was sitting alone at night, in sore perplexity as to ways and means, a knock came to the street door. He opened it, and saw on the pavement an unknown man bestriding a black horse. Without a word this visitor silently thrust into his hand a packet of Bank of England notes, then dashed off down the street and was no more seen. The notes were to the value of five page: 27 hundred pounds, and were given by the spirits.

If so, were those spirits thieves or forgers? For these Bank of England notes must have been stolen, either from the Bank itself or from some private person; or, if made by the spirits themselves, they were forgeries and the Bank would have to suffer. But, because the transactions of the Bank of England—like those of nature—are so large as to appear illimitable to us, we do not realize that not one single five-pound note is issued without the utmost accuracy of registration and balance; and that therefore a spiritual theft or forgery of five hundred pounds would as certainly be detected, and would as certainly result in the loss of some individual, as if it had been money taken out of one's own private purse.

It was, however, like arguing against the miracle of the loaves and fishes because page: 28 corn is made only by translation of material through assimilation, and is built up cell by cell—and fishes cannot be fashioned without milt and spawn and development, save at the cost of upsetting the whole balance of everything. The dear old man only lamented my blindness, which far exceeded his own, he said sorrowfully. But my Sadduceeism was immovable, and I could not see my way to the spiritual origin of those bank notes—if indeed they ever existed out of the realms of fancy at all. For after he became blind, and his imagination was neither checked nor controlled by his senses, Dr. Ashburner fell into that state of mental haze where the boundary lines between fact and fancy are clean swept away.

What crowds of people, and what multitudes of drawing-rooms come before me, like shapes and shadows passing over a mirror! Handsome Harrison Ainsworth, with his choice little dinners at Kensal page: 29 Green; Dr. Quin, that prince of diners-out and king of good fellows; Douglas Jerrold, keen, witty, sarcastic, yet kind-hearted; those Sunday evenings at Thornton Hunt's, where used to be met that Reader, who always reminded me of the Spanish proverb which bids you beware of the man who speaks softly and writes harshly; for Mr. Williams, with the softest, sleekest, silkiest manner in the world, had the most trenchant pen, and could cut your very heart out when he refused your manuscript for his firm:—All are gone now; and of many almost even the very remembrance has died out.

Who now remembers that fine old lady, in her quaint old-world costume, who had been married to one of the notabilities of his day, and was herself a notability in her own? whose son-in-law was also a celebrity? and whose daughter is still one of the standing marvels as well as one of the charms of London society? How well I remember page: 30 her friendly interest in me, and how, when I once kissed her hand, she patted my face and thanked me. At her daughter's house I first met one of our since most famous painters. He was a mere lad then, very handsome, and very unused to society. He wore a frock-coat buttoned to the chin; black gloves; and his boots showed that he had been walking, and that the streets were muddy. The whole mise-en-scène of his life is rather of a different character now!

Then there was that celebrity-loving lady who was always supposed to have been the original of Mrs. Leo Hunter. Her husband had lost his large fortune in some South American mines, but they still ‘saw people.’ At her house I met poor Miss Pardoe, who took the substance for the shadow, and spent on society the proceeds which she should have husbanded for old age, to find, when too late, that fashion is about the worst bank in which you can invest. She page: 31 had very small feet, of which, woman-like, she was proud; and I can yet see the dainty coquettishness of her pale blue satin slippers and the art with which she kept them well in view.

Here I met the two Misses Strickland—Agnes, with her ringlets and look of faded prettiness, accepting homage as one who had been used to it all her life; Elizabeth, sturdy, plain, devoted, self-effacing, the one who did the real work while giving to her sister all the honour. She lived only for that sister's pleasure and in her success; and she really idolized her. I shall never forget my own surprise when one day she turned to me, with a look of supreme devotion on her good, plain, hard-featured face, and said—every word like a caress—‘How pretty Agnes looks to-day!’

Once I was taken to see Miss Jane Porter, then living in a little street in Bayswater. She was in her bedroom, dressed in page: 32 black, and I think she wore a white cap underneath a long black scarf over her head. I was considerably awed by her presence and manner, and I felt as if I had been in one of Mrs. Radcliffe's rooms. She was an eerie, ghastly old lady, and she had that stagey and stately manner of the old school which impresses young people so painfully—impresses and crushes them.

Then there was that pretty little wife of the Q.C., with her trim figure, childish shoulders, youthful manners, and plain-featured daughters—whom she suppressed. She was one of my social godmothers, and stood sponsor for me in more houses than one. She took me, inter alia, to Sir Charles Babbage's, telling me on the way that he admitted to his evening parties only pretty women and distinguished men. The compliment was two-edged, and pleased both her and me alike.

Her sister was that famous widow who page: 33 spent her substance in searching for the remains of her still more famous husband. But, as was often said, she built her own monument when she manned her ships and organized her expeditions; and she wrote her epitaph in her conjugal constancy. Nevertheless, I believe it is an open secret that when they were together she and Sir John did not live quite like turtle-doves.

Then there was the barrister, so well known in society, who has now become a legal power and has attained high dignity. What charming parties he gave in his pleasant chambers! He got together notorieties of every kind, and levelled social distinctions as smooth as a bowling-green. I remember one evening when he introduced sherry cobbler, then a novelty, and when we tried our skill in guessing the face, whereof we saw only the eyes through two holes in the curtain. We all knew Mr. Urquhart's and Chisholm Anstey's.

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A strange little drama was then going on behind the scenes of that barrister's life. It was not so much behind the scenes, however, as to be concealed from the whole world; and there were many of the initiated who assisted at its representation. The curtain was rung down one evening, when, pale as his own white gloves, he stood by the door of a certain pretty and popular woman's drawing-room in Belgravia, and saw enter the lady of his long-time love, leaning on the arm of his triumphant rival and accepted successor. He took his public displacement like a gentleman, and effaced himself without a word of complaint or reproach.

I went to the house of Serjeant Talfourd, to whom women owe so much, and who added heroic poetry to his legal reforms and well-considered Bills; and I remember how he kept up the traditions of the then past generation, and came into the drawing-room with a thick speech and unsteady legs.

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Then, in strong contrast to all this, I was proselytized by Mrs. Schimmelpennick, whose mystical piety oppressed and chilled me—taking, as I thought it did, all the colour and backbone out of life. I was too full of the fire of youth to accept her quietism and self-suppression—which had not in it the active force of voluntary stoicism. Nor had it the etherealized passion, the sublime poetry, which had characterized the spirituality of Adeline Dalrymple. This had been the fiery essence of passionate love purified from all earthly grossness; but here I felt only the congelation, the paralysis, the death of life.

The most intrinsically remarkable of all my friends at this time was a certain Mrs. Hulme—a woman not in the fore-front anywhere, though she was incomparably the cleverest, the most brilliant, and the most original of my whole circle of acquaintances. She wanted only that energy page: 36 which springs from respect for humanity and consequent regard for success—that energy we call ambition—to have become as famous in her own way as a second Madame du Deffand or another De Stael. She was a distant cousin of the Kings, and she therefore felt bound, she said, to be dry-nurse and bear-leader to all their cubs.

‘And as you, my dear,’ she said to me one day, with her curious little smile, cynical for the one part, humorous for the other, ‘are a cub who want a great deal of licking into intellectual shape, I shall be glad to do what I can for you. So come to all my Tuesday evenings, and as often as you like in the week besides. I shall be always glad to see you, for you amuse me—I might almost say you interest me.’

And of this permission I was not slow to avail myself. If society were my favourite primer, I had nowhere such queer pages to page: 37 decipher as here. All the other people I knew were tame and common-place compared to those I met at Mrs. Hulme's; and I date many of my after-views in life to my acquaintance with her and hers.

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