A. W. Kinglake: A Biographical and Literary Study

Chapter 7

Chapter 77,844 wordsPublic domain

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 _Suprême de Volaille_ to the bread and wine of our Sacrament.”

He chuckled over the indignation of the _haute volée_, 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’être_.” He disparaged the wild fit of morality undergone by the “Pall Mall Gazette” during the scandalous “Maiden Tribute” revelation, pronouncing its protegées 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 _déconsideré_ 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 Athenæum “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, 1891:

“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.”

[Picture: Kinglake in the early Seventies]

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 Mérimée: 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.” {130}

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, décontenancé_, _repondit tout bas intimidé comme un enfant qu’on met dates le coin_: _Oui—non—pas précisément_.”

He had no knowledge of or liking for music. Present once by some mischance at a _matinée __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.” {133} 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 Athenæum 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. {140} 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?”

INDEX

Abdu-l-Medjid, 66.

Aberdeen, Lord, 70.

Acton, Lord, 135.

Acton, Mrs., 7.

Adams, J. Quincy, 66.

Airey, General, 63, 72.

Alma, 39, 48, 59, 64, 73.

Ampère, M., 102.

Anastasius, 34.

Ancelot, Mme., 99.

Arnold, Matthew, 88.

Ashburton, Lady, 135.

Ashburton, Lord, 33.

Athanasian Creed, 104.

* * * * *

Bachaumont, M., 87.

Balaclava, 74–77.

Bazancourt, Baron de, 48.

Beaconsfield. _See_ Disraeli.

Beauclerk, T., 129.

Beaufort, Duke of, 39.

Bedford, Duke of, 127.

Berlin Congress, 139, etc.

Beust, Count, 96, 137.

Bismarck, 105, 116–118, 140, 141.

Blackwood, 46, 49, 52, 127.

Blaygon Hills, 25.

Boissy, Marquis de, 18.

Bosquet, General, 74, 76.

Boyle, Dean, 3.

Bridgewater, 40, 43, 45.

Bright, John, 68.

Brocas Clump, 22.

Brookfield, Mrs., 11, 18, 126, 127.

Browning, R., 15.

Buller, Charles, 11.

Bulwer-Lytton, 19.

Bulwer, Sir H., 135.

Bunbury, Sir H., 111, 112.

Burghersh, Lord, 65.

Burnaby, Captain, 78.

Burton. _See_ Carrigaholt.

Bury, Lord, 118.

Byron, 11, 15, 22, 29.

* * * * *

Cabinet, Sleeping, 61.

Cagliari, 41.

Campbell, Colin, 62, 72.

Cambridge, 10, 13.

Canning, Lady, 66.

Canning, Sir S. _See_ Stratford.

Canrobert, 71, 78, 79.

“Caradoc,” 60.

Carlisle, Lord, 2.

Carlyle, 15, 33, 63, 136–137.

Carrigaholt, 21, 38.

Cartwright, Mr., 138.

Cathcart, General, 60, 76, 77.

Catherine II., 121.

Charles et George, 41.

Chatham, Lady, 6.

Chenery, Mr., 98, 111, 138–139.

Chesterfield, Lord, 58.

Chiffney, 24, 25.

Chorley, Mr., 17.

Clarendon, Lord, 50, 69.

Claridge’s Hotel, 100, 137, 146.

Clarke, Major, 64.

Codrington, General, 63, 74.

Coleridge, G., 9.

Collier, Sir R., 144.

“Corner,” the, 112, 126.

Cornwall, Barry. _See_ Procter.

“Cosmo,” the, 115.

Cour, M. de la, 69.

Crosse, Mrs., 3, 19.

Crimea, 39, 48, 54, 57, etc.

Crump, 51.

Curzon, 2.

* * * * *

Daubeny, Col., 78.

D’Aurelle, 63.

Delane, 70.

Dilke, Sir Charles, 114.

Dilke, Lady, 87.

Disraeli, B., 41, 42, 121, 139, 140.

Dollinger, Dr., 104.

Doyle, Sir F., 22.

Dream, 125.

Du Barry, Mme., 130.

Duff, Sir M. E. Grant, 4, 44.

* * * * *

Ellenborough, Lord, 50.

Ellis, Mrs., 35.

Eothen, 2, 4, 5, 6, 9, 10, 11, 13, 14, 15, 16, 17, 20–32, 38, 41, 58, 85–88, 127.

Estcott, Mr., 4.

Etchingham Letters, 130.

Eton, 10, 21, 28.

Everett, Mr., 25–26.

* * * * *

Fane, Violet, 102.

Ffoulkes, Rev. E. S., 104.

“Filioque,” 104.

Fiske, Mr., 139.

Fitzgerald, E., 54.

Flowers, Jemmy, 22.

Forster, W. E., 124, 136.

Froude, J. A., 95, 99, 102, 126, 137.

* * * * *

Gallifet, M., 117.

Gambetta, 118.

Gatty, Dr., 10.

Gerontaion, 101.

Gladstone, W. E., 10, 70, 94, 95, 99, 107, 115, 124, 143–145.

Gladstone, Mrs., 143.

Gortschakoff, 57, 97, 105–108, 122.

Grant, Miss, 121.

Gregory, Sir W., 112, 126.

Gregory, Lady, 3, 38, 111, 126, 133.

Greville Memoirs, 60.

Grey, Earl, 93, 108.

Grundy, Mrs., 110.

Guiccioli, Mme., 18.

Gull, Sir W., 147.

* * * * *

Hallam, A., 11.

Hamley, Sir E., 118.

Hampden, J., 46.

Harrington, Lord, 18.

Harrison, F., 114.

Harrington, Lord, 124.

Hatherley, Lord, 144.

Hay, Mr., 66.

Hayward, Abraham, 3, 19, 33, 95, 100, 102, 112, 124, 126, 131–133.

Herbert, Auberon, 115.

Holland, Lady, 99.

Homer, 7, 10, 24, 27, 61.

Hood, Thomas, 17.

Hook, Theodore, 112.

Hoseason, 10.

Houghton, Lord, 3, 11, 13, 16, 17, 34–36, 99, 145.

Howard, Mrs., 82.

Huxley, Professor, 139.

* * * * *

Inglis, Sir R., 23–24.

Inkerman, 77–79.

Irby, Miss, 98.

* * * * *

Jelf, W. E., 26.

Johnstone, Butler, 134.

Jowett, B., 125, 136.

* * * * *

Karabelnaya, 72, 85.

Keate, Dr., 10, 21, 22.

Kemble, Adelaide, 128.

Kemble, J. M., 11, 13.

Kenyon, J., 39.

Kinglake, A. W., parentage and birth, 5; school at Ottery, 9; Eton, 10; Cambridge, 11–13; tour in the East, 14; called to the Bar, 17; further travel, 18; shyness in society, 18; manners and appearance, 19; “Eothen” published, 20; its popularity, 26–32; writes in “Quarterly Review,” 33; accompanies Lord Raglan to the Crimea, 39; enters Parliament for Bridgewater, 40; first failure in the House, and subsequent speeches, 41, etc.; unseated for bribery, 45; publishes the first two volumes of “Invasion of the Crimea,” 48; further volumes, 55; the book discussed, 56–86; and compared with “Eothen,” 86–89; his first acquaintance with Madame Novikoff, his tribute to her brother, M. Kiréeff, 91; her history, character, literary work, 92–95, 99; Kinglake’s review of her book “Russia and England,” 95–98; his letters to her when abroad, 100, etc.; his later years, friends, daily habits, 111; the Athenæum “Corner,” 112; his comment on Sir Charles Dilke’s Civil List motion, 114; on the French character, 116; on Gortschakoff’s circular, 122; his singular dream, 125; increasing deafness, 126; sickness and death, 127; his traits of manner, temperament, speech, as reported by surviving friends, 127, etc.; attendance on Hayward’s last hours, 133; antipathies and likings, 137, etc.; opinion of Gladstone and Disraeli, 139, etc.; reserve as to his own religious feelings, 147.

Kinglake, Captain, 127.

Kinglake, Dr. Hamilton, 5, 6, 7, 9, 126–127.

Kinglake, Mr. Robert, 5, 6.

Kinglake, Mr. William, 5, 6.

Kinglake, Mrs. Hamilton, 4, 126–127.

Kinglake, Mrs. William (the elder), 6, 8.

Kinglake, Mr. Serjeant, 5, 6.

Kinglake, Mrs. Serjeant, 48.

Kinglake, Rev. W. C., 5, 6.

Kiréeff, Alexander, 92, 96.

Kiréeff, Nicholas, 90.

Knox, Alexander, 7.

Korniloff, 73, 120.

* * * * *

Lafayette, Mme. de, 46.

“Lama, The,” 16.

Lamb, Charles, 34.

Landseer, Edwin, 17.

Lane-Poole, Mr., 66, 67.

Laveleye, M., 98.

Layard, A. H., 49.

Lear, Edward, 146.

Le Brun, Mme., 99.

Lecky, Mr., 126.

Lever, Charles, 134.

Lewis, Sir G. Cornewall, 87.

Liddon, Canon, 104.

Lieven, Princess, 93, 108.

Lind, Jenny, 13.

Lockhart, J. G., 33.

Lucas, Mr., 49.

Lucan, Lord, 72, 76.

Lyons, Lord, 114.

* * * * *

Macaulay, 13, 33, 48, 51.

MacCarthy, 34.

Marie of Anjou, 23.

Marlen Bells, 13, 25.

Martineau, Miss, 2.

Massey, Mr., 112.

Maurice, F. D., 11.

Menschikoff, Prince, 67–68.

Mérimée, Prosper, 129.

Methley, 10, 14, 21.

Mexborough, Lord, 10, 126.

Miller, Captain, 64.

Miller, Larrey, 21–22.

Milman, Dean, 33.

“Minden Yell,” 62, 78.

Mirliton, 137.

Monckton Milnes. _See_ Houghton.

Montalembert, M. de, 44.

Morier, Sir Robert, 99, 102, 136.

“Most, Mr.,” 45.

Motley, Mr., 17.

Murray, John, 20.

Murray, Messrs., 97.

* * * * *

Napier, Macvey, 33.

Napoleon I., 34–35, 54, 69, 82, 117.

Napoleon, Louis, 41, 43, 71, 81, etc., 117, 119, 130.

Napoleon, Prince, 74.

Newcastle, Duke of, 48, 61, 70, 72.

Nicholas, Czar, 62, 68, 79–81, 93, 122.

Nolan, Captain, 62.

Norton, Mrs., 19.

“Nouvelle Revue,” 4, 97.

Novikoff, Mme., 4, 90–110, 118–119, 126–127, 130, 134, 137–138, 146.

Nugent, Lord, 2.

Nurses, The Lady, 85.

* * * * *

Okes, Dr., 21–22.

Oliphant, L., 46, 112.

Ollivier, Mr., 20.

Osborne, Bernal, 18, 99, 134.

Ostend, 122.

Ottery St. Mary, 9.

Ourusoff, Prince, 119.

“Owl, The,” 46–47.

* * * * *

Padwick, Henry, 42.

“Pall Mall Gazette,” 122.

Palmerston, Lord, 41, 70.

Panmure, Lord, 60, 70.

Parnell, C. S., 139.

Paton, Sir N., 146.

Peel, Lady E., 135.

Peel, Sir R. (senior), 23.

Peel, Sir R. (junior), 41, 102, 135.

Pelissier, Marshal, 71–72.

Pennefather, General, 73, 77.

Pere Enfantin, 23.

Pharisees, the, 103.

Platonic, 38, 120.

Pleydell, Counsellor, 146.

Poitier, M., 38.

Pollington, Lord, 10, 14, 21.

Pollock, Sir F., 113, 145.

Poole, Mrs., 35.

Portraits, 127.

Praed, Mackworth, 10.

Prince Consort, 60.

Procter, Adelaide, 17.

Procter, B. W., 15, 16, 23.

Procter, Mrs., 15, 16, 17, 21.

* * * * *

Quaire, Mme. de, 126.

* * * * *

Raglan, Lord, 39, 40, 59, etc.

Raglan, Lady, 40, 58.

Rawlinson, Sir H., 33, 112.

Récamier, Mme., 99.

Reeve, H., 50.

Robespierre, 46.

Robinson, Crabb, 16.

Rogers, Thorold, 104.

Ruskin, J., 88.

* * * * *

Salisbury, Lord, 97, 143.

Salvation Army, 14.

Sartoris, Mr., 128.

Savile, Mr., 10.

Scarlett, General, 74–75.

Schwetschke, G., 140.

Schouvaloff, Count, 140.

Sidmouth, 110.

Simpson, Mrs., 19, 53, 82.

Skene, Miss, 1.

Skepper, Anne, 15.

Skirrow, Ch., 134.

Skobeleff, General, 98, 99, 120.

Smith, Dr. Wm., 95.

Smith, Sydney, 7, 8.

Spedding, J., 11.

Spring Rice, Hon. S., 11.

St. Arnaud, 18, 65, 116.

St. Simon, 23.

Stanhope, Lady H., 6.

Stanhope, Lord, 135.

Stanley, Dean, 2, 65, 104, 131, 135.

Stanley, Lady A., 135.

Stansfeld, Rt. Hon. J., 102.

Sterling, J., 11.

Steyne, Lord, 103.

Stirling, Sir W., 112.

Storks, Mr., 112.

Stratford de Redcliffe, Lord, 61, 62, 65, etc., 101, 122.

Strachan, Sir R., 131.

Strzelecki, Count, 112.

Swift, Dean, 100.

* * * * *

Talleyrand, 129.

Tangier, 8.

Taunton, 4, 5, 8, 9, 13.

Tennyson, 11, 12, 16, 22, 58, 69.

Thackeray, 11, 7, 15, 33.

Thiers, M., 113.

Thompson, Dr., 11.

Ticknor, G., 112.

“Timbuctoo,” 12.

“Times, The,” 49, 98, 99, 137, 138.

Todleben, 49, 73, 78–79, 119, 123.

Tower, Tom, 86.

Trench, R. C., 11.

Trevelyan, Sir G., 47.

“Tristram Shandy,” 145.

Twisleton, E., 112.

Tyndall, Professor, 102.

Tynte, Colonel, 40.

* * * * *

“Vanity Fair,” 127.

Vathek, 34.

Venables, G., 17, 33, 112.

Verg, Count de, 17.

Victoria, Queen, 80, 84, 121.

Villiers, Charles, 99.

Voltaire, 84.

* * * * *

Waddy, Colonel, 78.

Wales, Prince of (Regent), 24–25.

Wales, Prince of (late), 120.

Warburton, Canon, 3, 137.

Warburton, Eliot, 2, 14, 17, 20, 21, 34–35, 129, 137.

Waverley, 58.

Wellington, Duke of, 80, 108, 131.

Westbrook, Colonel, 42.

Wilberforce, Samuel, 33.

Wolff, Drummond, 112.

Woodforde, Dr., 6.

Woodforde, Mary, 6.

Wordsworth, W., 11, 34, 56.

Wordsworth, Charles, 12.

Wynter, Dr., 26.

* * * * *

Yea, Lacy, 60, 63.

Yonge, Miss, 1.

[Picture: Decorative graphic]

CHISWICK PRESS: CHARLES WHITTINGHAM AND CO. TOOKS COURT, CHANCERY LANE, LONDON.

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