nation of the professorship coincided, as
such things have a habit of doing, with changes in place and
circumstance. The Chester Square house grew too small for the
children, and a move to Harrow was first meditated and then achieved.
A very pleasant letter to his mother, in November 1867, tells how he
was present at the farewell dinner to Dickens on his departure for
America, how they wanted him (vainly) to come to the high table and
speak, and how Lord Lytton finally brought him into his own speech. He
adds that some one has given him "a magnificent box of four hundred
Manilla cheroots" (he must surely have counted wrong, for they usually
make these things in two-hundred-and-fifties or five-hundreds),
welcome to hand on, though he did not smoke himself. In another he
expresses the evangelical desire to "do Mr Swinburne some good."

But in January 1868 his baby-child Basil died; and the intense family
affection, which was one of his strongest characteristics, suffered of
course cruelly, as is recorded in a series of touching letters to his
sister and mother. He fell and hurt himself at Cannon Street, too, but
was comforted by his sister with a leading case about an illiterate
man who fell into a reservoir through not reading a notice. The Harrow
house became a reality at Lady Day, and at Midsummer he went to stay
at Panshanger, and "heard the word 'Philistine' used a hundred times
during dinner and 'Barbarian' nearly as often" (it must be remembered
that the "Culture and Anarchy" articles were coming out now). This
half-childish delight in such matters (like Mr Pendennis's "It's all
in the papers, and my name too!") is one of the most fascinating
things about him, and one of not a few, proving that, if there was
some affectation, there was no dissimulation in his nature. Too many
men, I fear, would have said nothing about them, or assumed a lofty
disdain. In September he mentions to Mr Grant Duff a plan (which one
only wishes he had carried out, letting all the "Dogma" series go
[Greek: kat ouron] as it deserved) for "a sketch of Greek poetry,
illustrated by extracts in harmonious prose." This would have been one
of the few great literary histories of the world, and so Apollo kept
it in his own lap. The winter repeated, far more heavily, the domestic
blow of the spring, and Tom, his eldest son, who had always been
delicate, died, aged sixteen only, at Harrow, where since the removal
he had been at school. There is some