nual
of Repousse," and another on "Metal Work," will, I trust, bear witness.
And this I mention, not vainly, but because Lord Lytton seemed to be
interested and pleased, and because, in after years, I had much to do
with reviving the practice of this beautiful art. It was practising
this, and a three years' study of oak-wood carving, which led me to write
on the Minor Arts. _Mihi aes et triplex robur_.

Lord Lytton had the very curious habit of making almost invisible
hieroglyphics or crosses in his letters--at least I found them in those
to me, as it were for luck. It was a very common practice from the most
ancient Egyptian times to within two centuries. Lord Lytton's were
evidently intended to escape observation. But there was indeed a great
deal in his character which would escape most persons, and which has not
been revealed by any writer on him. This I speedily divined, though, of
course, I never discovered what it all was.

Lord Houghton, "Richard Monckton Milnes," to whom I had a letter of
introduction from Lorimer Graham, was very kind to me. I dined and
lunched at his house, where I met Odo Russell or Lord Ampthill, the Duke
of Bedford, the Hon. Mrs. Norton, W. W. Story, and I know not how many
more distinguished in society, or letters. At Lord Lytton's I made the
acquaintance of the Duke of Wellington. I believe, however, that this
meeting with Lord Houghton and the Duke was in my second year in London.

The first English garden-party which I ever attended was during this
first season, at the villa of Mr. Bohn, the publisher, at Twickenham.
There I made the acquaintance of George Cruikshank, whom I afterwards met
often, and knew very well till his death. He was a gay old fellow, and
on this occasion danced a jig with old Mr. Bohn on the lawn, and joked
with me. There, too, we met Lady Martin, who had been the famed Helen
Faucit. Cruikshank was always inexhaustible in jokes, anecdotes, and
reminiscences. At his house I made the acquaintance of Miss Ada
Cavendish.

To revert to Mr. Trubner's, I may say that one evening after dinner,
when, genial though quiet, Bret Harte was one of the guests, he was asked
to repeat the "Heathen Chinee," which he could not do, as he had never
learned it--which is not such an unusual thing, by the way, as many
suppose. But I, who knew it, remarked, "Ladies and gentlemen, it is
nothing to merely _write_ a poem. True genius consists in getting it by
or from heart