In the course of his life he had `bin
down to London a matter o' three or four times,' he would tell me,
`an' slep' there once.' He knew me to be a native of that city, and,
for he was the most respectful of men, did not make any adverse
criticism of it. But clearly it had not prepossessed him. Men and--
horses rather than cities were what he knew. And his memory was more
retentive of horses than of men. But he did--and this was a great
thrill for me--did, after some pondering at my behest, remember to
have seen in Heath Street, when he was a boy, `a gen'leman with summut
long hair, settin' in a small cart, takin' a pictur'.' To me Ford
Madox Brown's `Work' is of all modern pictur's the most delightful in
composition and strongest in conception, the most alive and the most
worth-while; and I take great pride in having known some one who saw
it in the making. But my friend himself set little store on anything
that had befallen him in days before he was `took on as stable-lad at
the Castle.' His pride was in the Castle, wholly.
Part of his charm, like Hampstead's, was in the surprise one had at
finding anything like it so near to London. Even now, if you go to
districts near which no great towns are, you will find here and there
an inn that has a devoted waiter, a house with a fond butler.
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