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relling followed, and late next day the friends of the bride arrived home, reporting all well, with the exception of the slight indisposition of the bride. The wonder would have been if she had not been indisposed after the excitement, rough travelling, and vigorous crying through which she had gone, but the Mongols accounted for it by saying that she started at six o'clock in place of two, and to cure her set a lama to read through the almanack -quite a homoeopathic remedy.
The wedding was now over, but the interchange
of friendly visits and hospitalities lasted a long time. First the father of the bride went to visit his son-in-law, custom requiring that he should not accompany his daughter when first she goes to her new home. Then the bridegroom escorted his mother-in-law back to her home and spent some days there, when of course more feasting ensued. The unintermittent feasting lasts about a week, but there are feasts, rejoicings, ceremonies, or visits at intervals for several months. JAMES GILMOUR.
for its squares of highest gentility-came into existence. Steadily enlarging its bounds, this new quarter comprised at later dates Guilford Street, John Street, Mecklenburgh Square, Brunswick Square, Bloomsbury Square, Russell Square, Bedford Square. In short, it covered all that district which for some years has been known to the flippant by the name of Mesopotamia. Called in the eighteenth century "the Law Quarter," it is remembered, and by persons who are not flippant it is still styled "the Old Law Quarter," from the number of great judges, famous lawyers, and lawyers devoid alike of greatness and fame, who lived within it.
Chief Justice Holt died on March 5, 1710,, in Bedford Row; Chief Justice Raymond died on April 15, 1733, in Red Lion Square; Sir John Pratt (Lord Camden's father) died in Ormond Street; Chief Justice Willes died of chagrin at missing the Great Seal in Bloomsbury Square, the square in which gentlemen used to loiter for the hour together in the hope of seeing the lovely Mrs. Law (Lady Ellenborough, after her husband's elevation) water the flowers on her balcony. Lord Lough borough flourished in Russell Square; Lord Tenterden moved from Queen's Square to Russell Square; Sir Samuel Romilly, to Byron's vindictive delight, and to the sorrow of every one else, died in Russell Square; Chief Baron Richards kept his hospitable table in Ormond Street; Baron Wood (George Wood, the famous special pleader) breathed his last breath in Bedford Square. Some of the great lawyers, who lived in Lincoln's Inn Fields, had, of course, their rural villas near town, and grand places in the country. Lord Keeper North's invalid wife had her villa at Hammersmith; Chief-Justice Pemberton his flower garden at Highgate. When the Lord George Gordon rioters had burnt him out of his superb library and grand house in Bloomsbury Square, Lord Mansfield retired to his lawns and woods at Highgate, in which parish Charles Yorke was the owner of a pleasant place. With his town house in Ormond Street, Lord Thurlow built for himself the villa at Dulwich, which he never entered on account of his quarrel with Holland, the architect. "When am I going into my new house? said this not invariably courteous Chancellor to a great lady at a "drawing-room." drawing-room." "Madam, the queen has asked me that impudent question, and I would not answer her. I will not tell you." Loughborough and Erskine had their villas at Hampstead, and Lord Kenyon his farm at Richmond. It was at Hampstead that Erskine-a lover of all creatures (man included)-found leisure for studying and forming the characters of his two pet leeches,-"Home" and "Cline," as he named them after two celebrated surgeons-the leeches of whom he used to speak with pathos as "the beings to whom he was indebted for the preservation of his existence." Of course also "the Old Law Quarter" was tenanted by other people besides lawyers. From its earliest time, it was a district for fashionable physicians and leading surgeons. Dr. Clench was in his bed (1692) in Brownlow Street, Holborn, when he was roused to visit a patient in the City by Mr. Harrison, a man of
gentle condition, and the pioneer of the London garotters, who, after driving off with the physician, strangled him in Leadenhall Street with a handkerchief, into which a piece of seacoal had been twisted. John Abernethy, the famous surgeon, died, 1831, at his house in Bedford Row, which James Ralph (1736) declared one of the most noble streets that London has to boast of;" Ormond Street being extolled by the same topographer as "another place of pleasure," with fields on the north that made it beyond question “one of the most charming situations about town." Fashionable schools could also be found in "the Old Law Quarter." In one of the more creditable stages of his journey through life, Dr. Dodd, the popular preacher who was hanged for forgery, kept a school for the sons of noblemen and gentlemen in Southampton Row, to which the attention of noble and gentle parents was called by advertisements that referred to the purity of the country air which came down the Row from the Hampstead Fields. And so long as the Duke of Bedford kept house on the north side of Bloomsbury Square, his suburb was much visited and dwelt in by the politicians, who used to be spoken of by their opponents with more piquance than politeness as "the Bloomsbury gang."
During the greater part of his prosperous career, Lord Eldon had his London home in the "Old Law Quarter." After bidding adieu to Cursitor Street and Carey Street-the streets from which the rising barrister (with resources apart from his profession) used to run to Clare Market to buy sprats for his supper-John Scott moved to the roomy house in Gower Street, which he inhabited while he was Attorney-General. One evening, on the rising of the Court during the '94 trials, Garrow said to the Attorney-General with much earnestness: "Do not, Mr. Attorney, I entreat you, pass that tall man at the end of the table. He has been here during the whole trial with his eyes constantly fixed on you. There's mischief in that man!" A minute or two later, after answering the man's gaze with a gaze no less steady and penetrating, as he passed before him, Sir John Scott reached his carriage, towards which the mob hurried in a significant manner, crying "That's he; drag him out." That some of the crowd meant to assault the Attorney-General was so obvious to Erskine (whose horses had been taken from his carriage by a knot of admirers bent on drawing him home in triumph) that he exclaimed, "I will not go without the AttorneyGeneral." Almost at the same instant Sir John Scott, addressing the mob, said "So you imagine that, if you kill me, you will be without an Attorney-General? Before ten o'clock to-morrow there will be a new Attorney-General, by no means so favourably disposed to you as I am." Mollified for the moment by the obnoxious lawyer's intrepid coolness, and influenced probably by a friendly voice that cried above the noise of a hundred angry murmurers, 'Let him alone! let him alone!" the crowd fell back a few paces and allowed the horses to pass. But though he got clear of the mob, the Attorney-General had not escaped the man of tall and muscular figure and
sinister countenance. On stepping from his carriage at the door of his house in Gower Street John Scott saw the man standing within three paces of the entrance to the dwelling. "What do you want?" the crown lawyer demanded sternly. "Don't fear me, Sir John," the man answered, "I have been in court all through the trial. I am a strong man, and had a mind to stand by you. You once did my father a kindness. Thank God, you are safe at home. God bless you, Sir John, and protect you!" Before Scott could give him a word of thanks, the tall man had disappeared.
Leaving Gower Street when he had attained judicial eminence, Scott kept the seals for several years in one of the stateliest mansions of Bedford Square before he carried them to Hamilton Place, Piccadilly. At the great house in the square, whilst he was using her wrongs for his own advancement, Eldon entertained the Princess of Wales with a grandly ceremonious dinner in June, 1808; and four years later, when he had passed over to the other party in the cause, the Chancellor welcomed the Prince Regent to a still more splendid and pompous banquet in the same house. "He was much comforted," Campbell observes, "by having the honour at the prorogation of entertaining at dinner his Royal Highness the Prince Regent, with whom he was now a special favourite, and who, enjoying the splendid hospitality and gay good-humour of Bedford Square, forgot that the Princess of Wales had sat in the same room, at the same table, on the same chair, had drunk of the same wine out of the same cup, while the conversation had turned on her barbarous usage, and the best means of publishing to the world her wrongs and his misconduct."
Another visit was paid by the Prince Regent to Bedford Square under comical circumstances. The Chancellor was lying, sick of gout, in bed, when the Prince Regent, who had compelled the servants to show him the right door, entered the bedroom unannounced. His Royal Highness had come to renew his entreaties that a vacant mastership in Chancery should be given to his boon companion, Jekyll, the witty descendant of Sir Joseph Jekyll, whilom Master of the Rolls. For some time the entreaties were unsuccessful, the Chancellor declaring that he could not conscientiously appoint so unfit a man as the famous punster to so important an office. "How I do pity Lady Eldon !" exclaimed the Prince Regent, throwing himself back into a chair. "What is the matter?" inquired the Chancellor, in a tone of surprise. "Nothing," was the answer, "except that she will never see you again; for here I remain till you promise to make Jekyll a Master in Chancery." Of course the Chancellor succumbed to this menace. Jekyll got the master
ship, and, discharging its duties more creditably than was expected for several years, withdrew from the office with a mot on his lips, at the order of old age and urgent sickness. 'Yesterday, Lord Chancellor," he remarked gaily to Eldon, on the day after the retirement, "I was your master; to-day I am my own."
For some years before Eldon's migration from Bedford Square to Piccadilly, the Old Law Quarter had been falling out of favour and fashion with the leaders of the profession that had given it peculiar interest and credit. Indeed, as the special district of the legal dignitaries, the quarter was in its palmiest time when the Gordon rioters moved, with words and looks of menace from the flames that were consuming Lord Mansfield's house in Bloomsbury Square, in the direction of Ormond Street, for the purpose of burning out the Lord Chancellor-a purpose that would doubtless have been executed had it not been for a timely exhibition of military force at the windows of the threatened mansion. By marching and countermarching a single sergeant's guard of redcoats to and fro before the windows looking towards the thoroughfare, Thurlow made the rioters imagine that his house was full of soldiers, and determined them to go elsewhere in the public service.
Soon after his elevation in 1802 to the peerage and the office of Lord Chief Justice, Edward Law (Lord Ellenborough) migrated from Bloomsbury Square to St. James's Square, and established himself in the great mansion, of whose magnitude he remarked to a friend, "Sir, if you let off a piece of ordnance in the hall, the report is not heard in the bedrooms." Memorable in the annals of the law for more important matters, Lord Ellenborough is remembered in them also as the first of the Common Law judges to move from the old quarter to the west end of the town. The last of the historic judges to withdraw from a district that had been for nearly two centuries so closely associated with domestic grandeur and dignity of the law was the late Chief Baron Pollock, who for a considerable term of years inhabited the large house at the north-east corner of Queen Square-the large house with the big portico that after his retirement from the mansion of many rooms was converted into a private hotel. The Chief Baron, who is said to have had twice twenty children, needed a house with a good many rooms in it. Let it not, however, be imagined that the amiable and universally-honoured judge was visited with forty sons and daughters. After seeing twenty children at his table, and losing one of them by death, he had a twenty-first child. Thus it was that, without having forty, he had twice twenty children-or at least twenty children twice.
THE name of Sir Theodore Martin is known
in history, as the biographer of the Prince Consort. But this distinction would not have fallen to him had he not previously attained an eminent place in the world of letters, as well as good social position. There was needed, for a task at once so honourable and so difficult, one who to great literary experience would also bring clear judgment, trustworthy discretion, and refined taste. Whoever recommended that Theodore Martin should be entrusted with the work certainly hit upon the right man. Of the general merit of the biography as a full, faithful, and interesting record of the life of Prince Albert there has from the first been one opinion. The book has pleased the public, and has, we believe, satisfied the Queen, as a worthy tribute and memorial. If there are points open to criticism this will at least be admitted, that no one could have written the work with fewer faults, with greater literary skill, and with more generous sympathy. We are glad to know that the cheap editions, as well as translations of the work, are widely and increasingly circulated; and every one must rejoice in the popularity of the Life of Albert the Wise and Good. Whatever may be the author's own estimate of the book, it will be regarded as his magnum opus, the most useful and enduring of his literary labours.
Theodore Martin, born in 1816, son of James
Martin, s.s.c. (solicitor in the Supreme Court), was educated at the High School and at the University of Edinburgh. Whatever learning he may have acquired at school, he ascribed, as many others have done, the first awaking of literary enthusiasm and of taste for classical study to the influence of Professor Pillans. The writer of these notes remembers with pleasure the bright and genial fellow-student of those days in the Humanity classroom. But for a time the pursuits of literature had to yield place to the studies of law. There were occasional poetic sallies, and one of the earliest poems, "A Disputacion between the Bodie and the Soule," gave promise of future power, though not in the line in which popularity was first achieved. The "Bon Gualtier Ballads," with which the name of Professor Aytoun is usually coupled as joint author, were understood to have mainly originated with Martin. Whether the separate share in these humorous poems has been clearly allotted we do not know, but both the writers obtained due credit for the clever contributions, which soon became known wherever English was spoken.
The subsequent published poetical works of Mr. Martin were mainly translations. First appeared "Poems and Ballads" from Goethe; then Heinrich Herz's Danish drama, "King René's Daughter;" followed by Ehlenschläger's dramas, "Correggio" and "Aladdin." Of wider interest than these Danish poems were the translations of the "Odes"
of Horace, the first edition of which appeared in 1860, followed by Catullus in 1862. The "Vita Nuova" of Dante, and the "Faust" of Goethe, "The Poems and Ballads of Heine," published in 1879, and a complete translation of Horace's works, with a life and notes, in two vols., published in 1881, complete the list of the titles of these classic studies. In 1867 a life of his old friend and collaborateur, Professor Aytoun, did ample justice to the merits of that animated and humorous writer.
In mentioning these various works we must remark that they were only the recreations of a busy life. Literature has not been the author's profession, but only an occasional amusement and solace amidst more prosaic duties. As early as 1845 Mr. Martin removed from Edinburgh, and at chambers in Abingdon Street, Westminster, has long been established as a Scottish solicitor and Parliamentary agent. Crowds of clients have there known him as a shrewd and careful man of business who never heard of him as a poet or humourist. Charles Lamb used to point to the huge tomes at the India House filled with his red-tape entries, and say "These are my works." In the same way Theodore Martin's time and thoughts have been chiefly directed to legal reports and parliamentary proceedings. In his town residence, in Onslow Square, Brompton, now South Kensington, where Thackeray was one of his nearest neighbours and warmest friends, and in his country retreat in Wales, he has found leisure for literary and historical pursuits.
The first volume of the "Life of the Prince Consort" appeared in 1874, the fifth and concluding volume in 1880. It is announced that Sir Theodore is now engaged in preparing a memoir of Lord Lyndhurst at the request of his family and representatives.
The published works do not represent all the literary labours of the author. He has contributed many articles to periodicals and journals. From one of his works, not published, but printed for private circulation, we give a few extracts, which will convey some idea of the tastes and opinions of the writer. In November, 1881, he delivered two lectures at the Edinburgh Philosophical Institution, under the title, "Horace and his Friends." The first lecture thus began :—
It used to be said of the Scottish peasant that he always knew two books well-the Bible and Burns's poems. I hope this is true still, though he may have carried his reading into wider fields. Just so it used to be the pride of all educated men throughout Europe to have Horace at their fingers'-ends; and even now, when the multitude of good books makes it hard to confine one's studies to a few favourites, Horace continues to hold a seat nearer to the heart of more men than even poets of a higher order of genius. Putting Shakespeare out of view, there is probably at this time no poet whose words are more familiar upon our lips. And why? Because he has put into language, the aptness of which is recognised by all, the varied feelings of our common nature-whether of pleasure, of passion, of indignation, or of sorrow-and the thoughts which are borne in upon our minds by the observation and experience of everyday life. It was this which made Horace so admired by men of such various genius as Dante and Voltaire, as Montaigne and Hooker, as Fénelon and La Fontaine, as Wordsworth and Lord Chesterfield. It is this which makes him the familiar friend of so many to-day. On every march," says Gibbon, writing of his militia days, "in every journey, Horace was
always in my pocket, and often in my hand." Only the other day the same thing was told us of President Garfield. And, indeed, what man of middle age has not often come across men who went nowhere without a Horace in their pocket? My excellent friend John Hill Burton, whom you have so lately lost, was one of several I have known who went thus fortified. Jules Janin, most sparkling of the many brilliant French critics of our time, was another. Come when you might upon him, as he sat in some woodland nook at Spa-his favourite summer resort--the little volume, bound in red morocco, was sure to be open in his hand. By the camp-fire, far in the lonely jungle, the same little volume has helped, and is ever helping, to beguile the sad or lonely hour. For now, as of old, Horace is not dear to scholars only. The statesman, the country gentleman, the engineer, the soldier, the man of business, the toilers and moilers of shop and counting-house, of factory and farm-all bow to his charm. One of the best translations of his Odes which I know is by the general manager of one of our great railways, whom I may not name, as he has not given his work to the public.
After describing many of the poet's friends in the days of Augustus, Virgil one of the closest of them, he tells of his great patron Mæcenas, and the welcome gift from him of the Sabine farm. And what stronger
His friends Horace kept to the last. proof could we have, not only of his unselfish and sympathetic and constant nature, but of his independence and manly character-for in the matter of friendship mere literary ability or distinction goes a very little way-than that he was admitted to the hearts and confidence of such a number of men, all of them men of mark, and distinguished for gifts and qualities of the most diverse kind!
But Horace's friend of friends was Mecenas. He it was who understood him best; he it was who became in Horace's strong but true phrase "a part of his very soul" (meæ partem anima, Odes, II. 17). By the time the Second Book of the Satires was published (B.C. 30), their intimacy had obviously become so close that the high-spirited little poet could accept without hesitation the gift of the Sabine farm, which it cost the rich nobleman comparatively little to make, but which was wealth itself to Horace. Not wealth in the sense of a large increase of income, but wealth to his spirit, by giving him a spot of earth which he could call his own, and where he could commune with himself and with nature in the wild seclusion of the rugged scenery which he loved. Had Mæcenas divined the silent yearning of his friend for such a possession? He might well have done so from the whole cast of Horace's mind. Or did he surprise his friend by gratifying a wish long cherished, as he tells us (Satires, II. 6), which in some congenial hour had escaped the poet's lips? "My prayers," he writes,
"With this I used to charge,—
And where, to crown the whole, there should
A patch be found of growing wood.
All this, and more, the gods have sent,
And I am heartily content."
Again and again he speaks with overflowing gratitude of what his little home among the hills was to him, of the delight with which he escaped to it from the fumum et opes strepitumque Roma.
In the summer of 1881 Sir Theodore Martin, when in Italy, had made a pilgrimage to the site of the Sabine farm, and he referred in his lecture to the picture of the Italian peasant wife and mother, the rustic Phidyle, as probably drawn from life :
I love to think of this rustic Phidyle as one of Horace's friends to imagine him, in his rambles near his Sabine