James Hain Friswell - A Memoir A Memoir

BY HIS DAUGHTER LAUKA HAIN FRISWELL - 1898 - PREFACE - I HAVE several times been asked by many wellknown people why a Life of my father has-not been written, and, in these days of interviewing anybody and everybody, it no doubt seems curious that no authentic record has been given to the world of one who did his best to elevate and teach the people, and who wrote one of the most widely read and popular books of the century. It has been through no wish on my part to hide my fathers name or fame, but because I doubted my own capacity, and because I have no account of his life except a few stray notes in his diaries and the remembrance of some stories of his youth. He was not a man to talk of himself, and he has left not a line of autobiography. I can remember him, when I was a very small girl, playing with my brother and me, and telling us wonderful stories, which I have since related to many children - The History of Rantipole Jones and the Wolves, of Tom Drum, of Willie Sweetstuff and the Ogre Policeman, The Shocking Story of the JumbIe Family, and many other romances, told with such verve and vigour that they have never faded from my memory. The Parlour Window, in Other Peoples Windows, gives a very true account of this time. I can remember him the life and soul of many an entertainment, both at home and abroad. In those days I sat with my mother and governess listening to many men and women who were then, or have since made themselves, well known in literature, art, science, or the drama. I was an only daughter, and not strong. I could not go to school or join in any active games with those of my own age, so my amusements were, while still a school-girl, writing childrens stories forThe Qztiver, going to the theatre, and, as a great treat, to the Literary Fund dinners. There my mother and I heard all the most eloquent speakers of the day, and met in the drawing-room most of the celebrated men of the time, many of whom would kindly come and talk to me for a few minutes. Amongst these were Dickens, Charles Keade, Anthony Trollope, Frederick Locker, Yates, Sala, and many more. My father was a conspicuous figure amongst them, a charming companion, full of wit and humour, with graphic descriptive powers and a wonderful memory. Again, I can remember him the victim of a wasting disease, a great invalid, for days confined to his bed, but always hopeful, cheerful, patient, and kind a most excellent husband and father, and still an entertaining companion. Thus it is in his domestic character that I can best recall him. But to the world he was well known as a satirist, novelist, and essayist, a true scholar, and an earnest, kindly man, with - to quote what Mr. Percy Fitzgerald says of him in his Memoirs of an Author -a f ine ideal of what was honourable and loyal. I have read Memoirs which consist of bald records of travels, public dinners, and other functions. Such things occur in the lives of most public men they are all much alike, and have been written about to such an extent that the subject must be somewhat boring to the general public nor do they record a mans life it is the everyday incidents that make our lives. Therefore, I scarcely mention my fathers journeys or dinners, but I have tried to give a picture of those who surrounded him - his family and his friends. I have heard it stated that he was always delicate. This is an error he was five feet nine inches inheight and robust-looking, he was thirty-eight inches round the chest, and all the doctors who saw him said that with such a chest he should not have had anything the matter with his lungs. But he caught cold . . . v111 PREFACE very easily writing is not a healthy occupation, and he worked too hard...