Page:The Strand Magazine (Volume 6).djvu/81

NE feels all the better after spending a day with Mr. Edmund Yates. A stay at Brighton—where he lives in Eaton Gardens—is conducive to good health; a talk with the past master of his art is an incentive to excellent spirits. Mr. Yates by no means reserves all his wit for his pen. He dispenses it amongst his visitors even more freely than he does on his sheets of foolscap. He jocularly hits and cuts himself about. Few men make merry over the troubles which have played havoc with their own particular personal appearance.

"I make good picture," says every man inwardly, with a decided emphasis on the "I," when he faces the camera. But Edmund Yates sums up his regrettable illness at the moment of "sitting" by remarking that "This is the first time I have been photographed since I only weighed thirteen stone! I used to weigh sixteen!"

Edmund Yates.
From a Photo. by Elliott & Fry.

Merriment is an excellent medicine and good humour an incomparable tonic. But there is a limit to its doses, and during the time I was with Mr. Yates I found a strongly-marked serious side to his disposition. It was a sympathetic seriousness, and it seemed to lie in one direction. It came when looking back and remembering those whose names are world-famous and who were his dearest friends. The quietude of his home seemed more impressive as he sat looking over a volume of Dickens's letters. For some moments he turned over the pages without speaking, and then—as though suddenly remembering I was in the room—closed the book hurriedly and exclaimed: "Now, how are we getting on?" This action revealed much.

In appearance Mr. Yates is decidedly distinguished-looking—tall and perfectly erect. His face has much altered since the time when Alfred Bryan used to picture him at dinners—and what a run there was on Edmund Yates for a speech! It always reminded one of a specially imported sunbeam. His face is much thinner now, and he has grown a beard. But his eyes twinkle as much as ever. They are the most tell-tale eyes imaginable. He may smile when telling you of some sorrow. He doesn't want you to know he feels it—but his eyes speak the truth. He talks very quietly and has a delightfully mellow voice—at once distinct and enjoyable to the listener, and a marked characteristic about him is to speak ill of no man, past or present.

He met me at the door. There was a real Brighton sun shining that day, and it sent its beams through the stained glass windows of the fine hall. The sunshine seemed to single out a picture of "Nellie"—a curious omen, for, like Dickens, Edmund Yates is passion-