During the summer of last year, my friend Miss Alice Bird,
who was paying me a visit at Longford, gave me this account
of it.
When Leigh Hunt's memoirs were being edited by his son
Thornton in 1861, he engaged the services of three intimate
friends of the family to read and collate the
enormous mass
of his father's
correspondence. Miss Alice Bird was one of
the chosen three. The
arduous task completed, Thornton Hunt
presented each of his three friends with a number of
autographic letters, which, according to Miss Bird's
description, he took almost at
random from the eliminated
pile. Amongst the lot that fell to Miss Bird's share was a
roll of stained paper tied up with tape. This she was led to
suppose - she never carefully examined it - might be either a
copy or a draft of some friend's unpublished poem.
The unknown treasure was put away in a
drawer with the rest.
Here it remained
undisturbed for forty-three years. Having
now occasion to remove these papers, she opened the forgotten
scroll, and was at once struck both with the words of the
'Hyperion,' and with the
resemblance of the
writing to
Keats's.
She
forthwith consulted the Keepers of the Manuscripts in the
British Museum, with the result that her TROUVAILLE was
immediately identified as the poet's own draft of the
'Hyperion.' The
responsible authorities soon after, offered
the
fortunate possessor five hundred guineas for the
manuscript, but
courteously and
honestly informed her that,
were it put up to
auction, some American
collector would be
almost sure to give a much larger sum for it.
Miss Bird's patriotism prevailed over every other
consideration. She expressed her wish that the poem should
be retained in England; and
generously accepted what was
indubitably less than its market value.
CHAPTER XLVII
A MAN whom I had known from my school-days, Frederick
Thistlethwayte, coming into a huge fortune when a subaltern
in a marching
regiment, had impulsively married a certain
Miss Laura Bell. In her early days, when she made her first
appearance in London and in Paris, Laura Bell's extraordinary
beauty was as much admired by painters as by men of the
world. Amongst her reputed lovers were Dhuleep Singh, the
famous Marquis of Hertford, and Prince Louis Napoleon. She
was the daughter of an Irish
constable, and began life on the
stage at Dublin. Her Irish wit and sparkling
merriment, her
cajolery, her good nature and her
feminine artifice, were
attractions which, in the eyes of the male sex, fully atoned
for her
youthful indiscretions.
My
intimacy with both Mr. and Mrs. Thistlethwayte extended
over many years; and it is but justice to her memory to aver
that, to the best of my
belief, no wife was ever more
faithful to her husband. I speak of the Thistlethwaytes here
for two reasons -
absolutely unconnected in themselves, yet
both interesting in their own way. The first is, that at my
friend's house in Grosvenor Square I used frequently to meet
Mr. Gladstone, sometimes alone, sometimes at dinner. As may
be
supposed, the dinner parties were of men, but
mostly of
men
eminent in public life. The last time I met Mr.
Gladstone there the Duke of Devonshire and Sir W. Harcourt
were both present. I once dined with Mrs. Thistlethwayte in
the
absence of her husband, when the only others were Munro
of Novar - the friend of Turner, and the envied possessor of
a splendid
gallery of his pictures - and the Duke of
Newcastle - then a Cabinet Minister. Such were the
notabilities whom the famous beauty gathered about her.
But it is of Mr. Gladstone that I would say a word. The
fascination which he exercised over most of those who came
into
contact with him is incontestable; and
everyone is