Mr. Marston, the dramatist,
was also introduced to me; and Mr. Helps, a thin, scholarly, cold sort of
a man. Dr. Mackay and his wife were there, too; and a certain Mr. Jones,
a sculptor,--a jolly, large, elderly person, with a twinkle in his eye.
Also a Mr. Godwin, who impressed me as quite a superior person,
gentlemanly, cultivated, a man of sensibility; but it is quite impossible
to take a clear imprint from any one character, where so many are stamped
upon one's notice at once. This Mr. Godwin, as we were discussing
Thackeray, said that he is most beautifully tender and devoted to his
wife, whenever she can be sensible of his attentions. He says that
Thackeray, in his real self, is a sweet, sad man. I grew weary of so
many people, especially of the ladies, who were rather superfluous in
their oblations, quite stifling me, indeed, with the incense that they
burnt under my nose. So far as I could judge, they had all been invited
there to see me. It is ungracious, even hoggish, not to be gratified
with the interest they expressed in me; but then it is really a bore, and
one does not know what to do or say. I felt like the hippopotamus, or--
to use a more modest illustration--like some strange insect imprisoned
under a tumbler, with a dozen eyes watching whatever I did. By and by,
Mr. Jones, the sculptor, relieved me by standing up against the
mantel-piece, and telling an Irish story, not to two or three auditors,
but to the whole drawing-room, all attentive as to a set exhibition.
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