Recollections of George John Cayley 



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I am going to the fancy ball at the palace to-night," 

 he said, " and I am coming to show Mrs. Craven my 

 sword." 



" Where did you get it from ? " my father asked him, 

 taking it into his own hand and admiring it. 



" I made it myself," the young man answered ; " look at 

 the chain — I am very proud of the chain," and then, re- 

 placing it in its scabbard, he nodded, and passed through 

 the door which had not yet shut, into the dim, dignified 

 home of the Cravens. 



Among the many pictures which hang up in one's gallery 

 of early impressions I have more than one fading sketch of 

 my old friend. But when some one asked me who he was 

 like, I could only think of some character in fiction, of 

 Hamlet — Mercutio — Fantasio, perhaps, out of Alfred de 

 Musset's play. I could imagine George Cayley fishing for 

 wigs as Fantasio did. How many strange objects he used 

 to fish for, and what lovely things he used to bring to show 

 us devised by his own hands and invented by himself! I 

 can see those hands still, nervous, gentleman's hands, the 

 fingers scarred and stained with many experiments, with 

 work on the anvil, with acids and varnishes. When we 

 first met his dress was shabby and fanciful. Sometimes he 

 had on a red cap like that one in the picture of Masaccio's 

 in the National Gallery. People wore their hair long in 

 those days, almost as long as they did in Masaccio's time. 

 Mr. Cayley was not handsome, like Masaccio, but never- 

 theless, his was a striking appearance and a figure not to be 

 overlooked ; always to the front, propounding, speculating, 

 alert, interested — his friends laughed at his whimsical 

 theories and paradoxes, and loved his warm heart, and 

 admired his gay, quick intuition. 



We did not meet again for a year or two after that 



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