but, though a boy who chose to work could get a splendid education there, the boys were utterly neglected when out of class, and the Stone Playground, as it was called, was certainly a bear-garden. He talked about his experiences at Charterhouse, but said he hoped that such bullying as went on there in his own time would not be allowed anywhere in these later days. I said there was plenty of bullying at King's College School at play-hours, and I told him an amusing story of how I had thrashed a big hulking fellow whom I caught tormenting a puny-looking youngster of Jewish appearance, who turned out to be a son of Baron Rothschild. Thackeray laughed heartily, and asked me whether the young millionaire was duly grateful to his deliverer. I said I thought he was, for we became great friends, and he often invited me to Gunnersbury, where we used to help ourselves to the choicest pineapples in the hothouses, much to the indignation of the head gardener. I said Leopold that was his name—also took me once to his father's great house at Knightsbridge, and showed me the dining-room with the table laid out for some special banquet, all the plate on the table being of solid gold. How did it look?' asked Thackeray. Horrid, I should say.' 'You're quite right,' I replied, 'heavy and commonplace compared with a fine display of silver and glass.' Here Thackeray hailed a hansom to take him to the Cornhill, and at parting gave me a warm handshake and said, 'Next Monday, then, we shall meet again at Palace Green.'

What I noticed more than anything else about Thackeray during this our first walk and talk was that he seemed to be always in pain. I never heard him utter a word of complaint, nor did he groan or cry out, but he always had the saddest look on his face, even when it was animated and smiling, and sometimes, when talking most brightly, he would stop short and close his eyes and screw up his features as if suppressing a spasm of agony. It was this betrayal of ceaseless suffering, contrasting with his almost playful kindliness and cordiality to me, that filled me with sorrow for him as I watched him drive away in the whirl of Piccadilly.

At that next meeting, when Thackeray had again taken me over the new house and dwelt on the spaciousness of the principal rooms, I ventured to remark that such a house would hold a good deal of company, as if wondering what Thackeray's purpose was in building on such a scale. He evidently took in my meaning at once, and he replied, 'Well, I owe the house to the Cornhill, and I intend to devote it to the Cornhill. I have an idea of gathering round me here all the celebrities, and most particularly the rising talent in literature and journalism. That is a thing which is almost entirely wanting in London just now, especially for dinners and supper-parties, such as were common enough twenty or thirty years ago.' He spoke of Abraham Hayward, Monckton

Milnes, and other shining lights of that brilliant period, and said it would be the greatest happiness of his life if he could revive the jovial literary life of those days. Even as he uttered those words so full of hope and high spirits there came over his genial features the shadow of suffering and sadness, which seemed always to be impending there.

Soon after starting on our walk towards Town Thackeray asked me what I was reading, and whether I had any settled habits as to books. I said I generally kept two books going at once, one light and easy, a novel or something of that sort, and the other more serious. I told him I was then absorbed by Harrison Ainsworth's Jack Sheppard, with its wonderful illustrations by Cruikshank. Thackeray said, 'That's a fine sort of book for you to read! Why, Ainsworth ought to be hanged for writing it, and Cruikshank ought to be shot for illustrating it. It is nothing but a glorification of crime and villainy, and I believe it has made more criminals than any other book of our time. It is all the worse for being so well written, and for the extraordinary power of the pictures. I call that the lowest degradation of genius and art. Those fellows ought both to be ashamed of themselves.' I contended that the state of society in the book was so different from our own, and the scenes and time were so remote, that it could not do much harm; and I reminded Thackeray that in the end the hero and all the other bad people were duly strung up at Tyburn, whilst all the good people were happily married, or otherwise rewarded. Thackeray laughed, and agreed that it was so, and we then went on to talk of Ainsworth and Cruikshank as author and illustrator. I said there were never two more exactly suited to one another. Upon this Thackeray became quite enthusiastic about both of them. He said that The Tower of London was his favourite amongst Ainsworth's books, and that Cruikshank's etching of Mauger, the executioner, sharpening his axe, was the most extraordinary piece of work in its way that he had ever seen. He told me that Cruikshank was an old friend of his, and that they had worked cordially together many years before, he having written several papers for Cruikshank's Table Book, and having employed Cruikshank to illustrate his Legends of the Rhine. They had parted company, however, when Cruikshank took up his temperance craze, which Thackeray thought had entirely spoilt his career as an artist. He referred almost angrily to The Triumph of Bacchus, a sort of coloured broadsheet, then in all the printshop windows, in which Cruikshank had depicted in lurid tones the drinking customs of the British people on all sorts of occasions, such as christenings, birthdays, weddings, funerals, and even executions. The Triumph of Bacchus consisted of a number of small pictures or groups, divided from one another rather clumsily

by draperies or curtains, each group representing a party of men and women drinking together, most of them in various stages of drunkenness. All of these small pictures were intentionally repulsive, and many of them were decidedly coarse, and the whole production was totally unworthy of Cruikshank's genius. It was inspired, not by any artistic association, but solely by fanatical teetotalism, which by that time had unfortunately carried Cruikshank away from his true calling, into all sorts of ill-judged extravagances. Thackeray was greatly interested to learn that I also knew Cruikshank personally, he being an old friend of my father's, and that I often went to tea with the family at Hampstead; and he was amused when I showed him ' a present' which Cruikshank had once given me, and which is still among my proudest possessions. It consisted merely of his marvellous signature, written in bold characters right across a half-sheet of note-paper, over the words To his brother-teetotaller Edward Wakefield.' 'But surely you are not a teetotaller?' asked Thackeray, eyeing me quizzically. 'I was when that was written,' I replied,' but I am now allowed to have a glass of good old '32 port after dinner on Sunday.' 'Stick to that,' he said, ' and it will never do you any harm, even if it grows to a bottle when you arrive at years of maturity.'

He then asked me what other book I was reading at the time, and I told him it was Kinglake's Eothen, with which I assumed he was familiar. 'Oh, yes,' he replied, of course I know the book well enough, but I don't think it is a very happy performance. It won't compare with Vathek, for example.' I failed to see the point of that criticism, because Beckford's Vathek was a highly imaginary story of Oriental romance, almost in the style of the Arabian Nights, whereas Eothen consisted of familiar letters descriptive of Kinglake's own travels and observations in Greece, Turkey, Palestine, and Egypt, in the early 'forties. I guessed that Thackeray had confused Eothen with some quite different book, but I did not presume to correct him. I quickly changed the subject by referring to Kinglake's History of the War in the Crimea, which was then the subject of extremely bitter controversy. Thackeray seemed to dislike Kinglake's style, and said he was utterly wrong in many of his facts and judgments of character and motives, but he was undoubtedly right in declaring that there ought never to have been any war in the Crimea, as far as the British were concerned at all events. We were drawn into it by the stupidity and vanity of our statesmen, solely to gratify the ambition and further the political designs of the French emperor. Thackeray knew his France exceedingly well, and he ridiculed the notion of an impostor like Napoleon III. being able to impose permanently on the French people a new Bonaparte dynasty,

based on such fantastic dreams as his Idées Napoléoniennes, and manipulated by his unspeakable entourage of sordid intriguers, most of whom ought to be in gaol rather than at the Tuileries or the Quai d'Orsay. I never heard Thackeray let himself go more warmly than he did on this subject. Just before we parted, following some allusion to my father's services in the Crimea, he asked me very earnestly, looking me full in the face, what I intended to be after I had done with school and college. I replied that my family had some influence at the War Office, and that we hoped I might get a commission in the Royal Artillery. A sort of spasm passed over his face when I said that, and pressing my hand firmly, he exclaimed, 'Don't-don't do anything of the sort. Don't waste your brains and your opportunities in such a barren calling. You can surely find something better to do with your life than that? What do you care for the gold lace and the trumpery finery of the Royal Artillery?' Then, relaxing the severity of his voice and manner, and smiling in his own kindly way, he added, while warmly pressing my hand, Promise me you will think it over, and if you like, tell your father and your friends what I have said to you about it.' His words made a great impression upon me, and may have had a good deal to do with the subsequent course of my life.

EDWARD WAKEFIELD.

(To be continued.)

THE WAND OF PROSPERO

THE Peerage is the shorthand of History. When any name reaches the Peerage it stays there for ever as part of our life, whether the title endures for twenty-four hours, as in the case of the first and only Lord Leighton, or for 400 years and more, as in the case of the mighty dukedom of Norfolk.

Three generations of public life and distinguished literary attainments have raised the name of Lytton very high. The literary work of the first Lord Lytton seems far away from us; and indeed it is, if we contemplate the social and political changes which separate his time from ours. If we are considering, on the other hand, the art by which he conveys to us his ideas and narrative, it may well serve as a model of excellence. There are reservations, of course.

It is astonishing, for instance, to read the novel of Harold, and to note the changes of style. Where Lytton is dealing with circumstances familiar to him-the life of courts, the sayings of important people, and movements of large policies-his prose is easy and flowing. Elsewhere he conscientiously gives us the sources of his information and supplies an adequate glossary. All this is interesting; but we feel in doubt as to whether we are really reading a novel, or have, by some mistake, put back the clock and returned to school. As for the countless characters variously labelled masculine or feminine, who flit through the pages, we can feel no interest in people who require so much explaining.

What, then, is the secret of Lytton's power? It is, surely, his divination. We forget much verbiage-all, in fact-when we read: 'Thou fearest this man, and why?' To which the crafty Duke William replies: 'Because in the breast of Harold beats the heart of England.' We want to read about that, and we forget our impatience with uninteresting technicalities as the narrative sweeps on to the crowning tragedy of Hastings.

If we want to realise what is perfection in historical narrative we should read Mr. Bailey's The Fool. In spite of a repellent title, in spite of dealing with a period of history generally described as dull -King Stephen and onwards-in spite of the vast length of the story (fifty years)-in spite of the innumerable characters in the